Post Reichenbach 5 Diary Entries
by inukshuk
Summary: Post Reichenbach. The world unfolds through the eyes of Molly, Mrs Hudson, John Watson, Lestrade and Holmes. The characters as they appear on screen. Tight continuity among chapters.
1. Chapter 1 Molly

Chapter One - The Personal Diary of Molly Hooper

You could see the sadness. It was around his eyes. When he looked at Dr Watson, it was there unobserved. I didn't know what it meant yet part of me did. I can't explain it. I think it surprised him that I knew. Maybe we aren't all clever like him but every so often, we glimpse at an expression and the truth is obvious. Even to us.

He said he was going to die. I should know better than to disagree so I didn't say so but I didn't believe him. I mean. He is always right, isn't he? But this one time. I didn't believe him. Turns out I was right, after all. He didn't die. Well he did. But he didn't.

He was so very specific; every detail exacting and demanding precision. That's what he does. Mental autopsies. Vivisections on us all. Never wastes a breath. Never a word chosen to soften a blow or show a kindness. He is heartless; a human laser cutting deeply to expose the truth.

I was on my way home. He scared the wits out of me sneaking up like that. Not even a hello or nice to see you. He brought crisps. It wasn't necessary. He didn't need to bribe me. I would have stayed regardless. He said he needed me. He never needs anyone. Well, maybe Doctor Watson. But he certainly never needs me.

"I need your help."

He said he was going to kill himself and that it wouldn't work unless I helped. I couldn't. I couldn't do that. Whatever he had done … whatever was the matter … I told him that there were people he could talk to. I tried to talk him out of it but it made him angry and he turned on me. He does that. He gets angry. Turns on people. He stopped so suddenly I nearly bumped into him.

"It will be an illusion!" He didn't finish it with "you stupid woman" and I thought that rather nice of him even though it was all in his voice and his face. He doesn't think so much of me that he filters his insults. I don't know if he even realizes they hurt. Still. I took his restraint as a sign of desperation.

I tried to defend myself but I couldn't really get the words out. It was lost on him and he had no patience. With a wave of his hand, he demanded my silence. We went back into the morgue of St Barts.

He palmed a rubber ball. Put it to his eye then threw it up high and snapped it out of the air.

"This. Will be sewn into my shirt. Here." He struck an open palm under his right arm as instruction. "Make sure you remove it before you dress the body."

Body?

"There will be a corpse waiting. It will have to convincing. I have a distinctive profile but people see what they expect to see. This is important. Are you listening?"

I opened my mouth. I didn't have a chance to answer. The lab door swung open.

"Brother." A stranger's voice interrupted. We both turned.

"Mycroft." He did not sound pleased.

"What are you doing, brother?"

"I am planning to kill myself. What does it **look** like?"

"Don't be daft. We decided to leave the arranging all to me. There are too many things that could go wrong … "

"**You** decided. I agreed to nothing."

I didn't much like being in the middle of a fight. It seemed wise to move to the side. I looked down. Then away. Then up at him. His face pinched up and he was breathing hard, like it was an effort to restrain himself.

"Now is a fine time to consider what might go wrong. At this late date, do you not think you have caused enough damage? Besides. It is my life."

Blue eyes had turned to ice. I shivered.

"That was unfair."

"It is true."

"Let this be my amends to you, then. Who the devil is this?"

"Molly." He paused. "She is with me." He added it as a throw away and then stepped so that he came between his brother and I. It was defiance; a dare.

His back was my shield. Broad shoulders just above my eye level. I could almost feel the heat from his body. The smell of him – exotic and complex – wafted close, like a teasing entrail of smoke. He used the whole of his chest to breathe. Expanding and contracting with the same control as used for everything else. His voice cut deep. Just a single word order.

"Leave."

"Not until we agree upon the myriad of details, Sherlock. This is going to be complicated. You must know. I am unwilling to speak about them in the presence of … others."

"And I am not willing to speak of them under any other terms." He paused again. And then he said. "She stays."

"How do you know you can trust her?"

The lab went still and all I could hear was that far off hum of the vents, a metallic ticking and soft hissing of air. He didn't answer at first and I dropped my head waiting for the inevitable patronizing dismissal.

That voice spoke. His voice. Unexpectedly quiet and vulnerable. "You won't betray me, will you, Molly?"

The words shook me and my heart felt like it would burst. I could hardly breathe. I stared at his back – a swath of wool with a single perpendicular pleat straight down the centre. I didn't dare answer. So many of his questions are rhetorical but some aren't and I can never tell one from another. It was always better to say nothing. Less opportunity for him to ridicule. Then I realized he was waiting for me.

"Oh." It was hardly louder than the fans. "No." I cleared my throat and said it one more time. "No."

"See there, Mycroft?"

"You are betting your life on her word."

"I am betting my life on a great many things, Mycroft. There are a thousand things that could go wrong. Molly will not be one of them. Understood?"

I didn't know who he was talking to but I nodded just to be sure and echoed him. "Understood."

In the end, his brother arranged for everything else. My part was simple enough. They would pronounce him dead in emergency and I would collect him for the morgue. Then bodies would be switched. We would have only minutes and he would escape in the chaos.

That day I was in early. Before dawn. I couldn't sleep. No point being anywhere else so I came in and spent hours waiting. It was impossible to concentrate. I paced. Checked the replacement corpse. His brother must have extraordinary connections. The corpse was a very good match indeed. I ensured his clothes were stacked just right top to bottom so he could dress in order – from inside out. I went over the plan in my head again and again.

When it happened, it was fast and intense, like being hit with a tidal wave. I had only a briefest warning. News of a jumper on the roof travelled fast. I knew it was him and then felt sick knowing how complicated the fall would be. What if he missed? He couldn't miss. I paced. And then – a sudden silence and then noise - everyone knew all at once that it was Sherlock Holmes and that he was dead. I was summoned and two orderlies lifted him onto my gurney and covered his bloodied face with a sheet.

As soon as we got to the morgue, he jumped off and ripped open his coat. His hair was soaked in crimson and dripped everywhere. He tore off his scarf and kicked off his shoes and then undid his belt. "Where are my clothes?"

Then in that room with just the two of us and hardly any time at all to spare, he stripped off his clothes. All of them.

"Come on! Come on, Molly!" He snapped me out of my haze and threw his shirt with the sleeves inside out.

I had to wait until I had all his clothes to dress the corpse. He threw me the last piece and for an instant, he stood in front of me – utterly bare. There was a beat, a pause, a moment that seemed to last forever. The spell was broken with a blink and then he reached for the neat stack of clothes that I had arranged for him and I went to work on the corpse.

He was finished before I was. I knew it because the space behind me was suddenly still. Outside in the hall, an approaching chaos. Voices started clamouring … and above them, Dr Watson's fighting to be freed from those who restrained him. Grief and panic constricted his voice into anger.

"Let me go!" You could hear the terrible pain. He was wild, like a wounded animal.

I looked at him as he shut his eyes against the noise as if to block it from his memory. "Good bye." The whisper haunted in the echo of the morgue. It took my breath away.

"Good bye." I said. "Take … Take care of yourself. Please? Will you …when will … you be … back?"

He said nothing more but pulled down a cap to hide his face and slipped out the back. That was the last I saw of him.

In the end, I kept his scarf. I didn't see the harm in it. I would have given it back but no one missed it. I guess it made sense to others that it was lost in the confusion.

I keep it in a box on the top shelf of my closet. Once in a while, I take it down and stare at it and think of him. Sometimes I loop it around my neck the way he used to – fold it in half and then loose ends through the middle. When I pull it tight, I drop my chin into the cashmere and inhale. It's him – tobacco, sweat, a cologne that is so faint that I have to concentrate to find it, and the whole of London all mixed in. I think of his sharp voice and his ruthless intellect and how incompetence and fools frustrate him and then acknowledge that we are all incompetent and foolish compared to him.

I wonder where he is.

I wonder if he is well and safe … if he has any friends.

It must be hard being him.

And even harder trying not to be…


	2. Chapter 2 Mrs Hudson

Chapter Two - Mrs Hudson – Thoughts she has kept to herself

I remember it like it was yesterday.

I had been standing at their doorway looking at the mess. There was a smell in the apartment. God only knows what it was or where it was coming from. Sherlock was so untidy. It was shocking, really. I never could understand how he kept anything straight. But he had a way about him, I suppose, even though he was a bit high strung. People thought a lot of him; people like Detective Inspector Lestrade and of course Dr Watson. The odd rank odor was a small price to pay, I suppose.

The downstairs phone rang so off I went as you do. I wasn't expecting Dr Watson. He doesn't often call me. Well. Never calls, actually. But this time he did.

"Mrs Hudson." His voice … even now, thinking about it, I get chills right down my spine. "I'm afraid … I … I have some bad news." It was a strain for him to talk and I could picture that frown he sometimes had when things didn't agree with him.

"What's happened?" I had always thought there might be a call like this. The two of them regularly did get up to no good. Especially Sherlock. Went right after trouble, he did. Like a moth to flame. It was his nature; there was no stopping him. And Dr Watson was no help at all, carrying on right behind him, happy to be a part of it. So naturally, I thought there might be a call like this someday. Dreaded it, really. Accidents were bound to happen, weren't they. Only a matter of time, I supposed.

There was no working up to it; no preamble. Just Dr Watson's quiet voice stating the facts, kind and gentle but you could tell. There was something.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock Holmes is … is …"

"Is what, dear? Has he been in an accident?"

"Yes. No. Mrs Hudson. Not an accident. Sherlock is …"

There didn't seem to be anyone at the other end. "Are you alright, Dr Watson? Dr Watson? You're scaring me. What's happened?"

"Sherlock is … dead."

I don't mind tell you I nearly fainted. It was all I could do to stagger to a chair and sit down hard. I didn't cry right way. I didn't believe it at first.

"No. It's not true. He … he can't be … how?"

"Suicide."

When I finally found Dr Watson at the hospital, I'm not sure who was helping who to stand upright. We were both overcome by it all. Dr Watson – his eyes bleary and tears dropping from the edge of his jaw – it all just broke my heart.

"It's not true," I said.

"I am afraid so, Mrs Hudson."

"But … suicide?" I said. "It doesn't make **sense**. He wasn't like that. He was an odd sort and he had his moods and all. You and I. We were both used to that, weren't we. But this? We'd have known. We'd have known."

All at once, something came over Dr Watson. It was a darkness, a terrible desperate emptiness like he was exhausted and could not go on. He stared at me and I could not speak. Felt like he could see right through me. A dread came over me and all at once, I didn't want him to answer.

"We were on the phone. I was standing right there. Looking up at him. I tried to … he said goodbye. Then … right in front of me ..." The words seemed to break him apart. Grown man like that. Soldier and all. He clung onto me like I could save him and wept so long and hard he was sick.

After the funeral, I didn't have the heart to touch their rooms even though Dr Watson could not bring himself to step inside. It was too much for him, poor man. The rent would have been nice but it didn't seem right to move on. Not just yet. Besides, my little shop was starting to take in a little bit extra and I thought … well … no real rush, was there. I thought it might be a way for Dr Watson to get over it all if he moved back in. He did take it so very hard.

I didn't see Dr Watson for a while. Understandable, I suppose. He came round one afternoon after we had a nice visit to Sherlock's grave. I invited him in for a cup of tea. Old time's sake. We went upstairs and got all the way to the door of their apartment. Then something came over him and he froze.

"What is it, dear?" I turned to him and he was white as a sheet. He stood there still as a statue and sweating. I touched his arm and he flinched and shot up his arm to block in that severe way soldiers have when they are in a close fight. It startled me. "I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to hurt you …"

"I know. It's not your fault." His voice was barely above a whisper. His body was locked into place and it looked like it was all he could do to lower his arm. "I can't do this. I can't go in. I can't … "

"Well then come downstairs and have a cup there, dear. It's all the same …"

"I … I need to excuse myself, Mrs Hudson. I'm awfully sorry. I just … need … some air."

They really were the greatest of friends. Seeing them together always reminded me of an old, married couple, each filling in those little blanks for the other. A word here. An effort there. As you do when you know someone as well as you know yourself. And never mind Dr Watson's blog full of pride or Sherlock's insistent demands for Dr Watson in particular to accompany him. Even their arguments never amounted to much at all except what everyone argues about – the little vanities and expectations that come up when you rely on someone and want them to be as you most need them.

I worry about him, now. He doesn't live here anymore and I can't keep an eye on him or pop in for a cuppa like we used to and have a nice natter. Now I don't know where he goes to sleep at night. He has no job that I can tell. The clinic hasn't seen him and when I asked, they had no thought of where he might be. That army pension is a pittance – it's a crime how little a brave soldier like him should get for defending our country.

Dr Watson has had troubles before and in his own way, moods and moments that made me think that he never entirely put the war behind him. He has a service revolver and keeps it in a drawer and the thing that worries me most about Dr Watson is that he will end up dead – just like Sherlock – by doing himself in. I won't have it, I tell you. I won't have it.

I didn't become their landlady so I could bury them both.


	3. Chapter 3 John Watson

The Private Blog of Dr John Watson

There's a park bench by an oak that gives off a nice bit of shade when the sun comes out. The view is a pond inhabited by a duck with feathers missing on its right wing. It spends its days paddling about, up and down through the willow branches that dip into the water. Every now and then, it dunks in for a bite of food.

I like it here. It's quiet. No one bothers me. I can almost breathe. Some days I bring a sandwich and chuck the last bit of crust at the duck. I think it recognizes me now. When I arrive, it drifts my way and gives me a once over. It is company of a kind.

Today is no different than the last. Or the one before that. I sit alone and watch the day go by.

From a distance, I can hear footsteps. They are slow, deliberate and – for a fleeting instant – my hackles raise and my heart stops because I think I recognize them. This would be how he comes back, I imagine. SHER-? I twist and scan – seeing everything and nothing all at once. There – coming towards me in that meticulous way he has – Mycroft. I am almost sick with disappointment. My twist unwinds and I go back to staring at the pond.

I wonder how he knew where to find me. Then, I realize he watches. He is always watching. It is his job. So why wasn't he watching when -? Because he wasn't, I tell myself for the umteenth time. I am still angry with him but understand he lost a brother when I lost my best friend. Mycroft has found me a place – small, simple – hidden away from the press. I should be grateful but I'm not; yet I can't go back to 221B and can't afford anything else. I think he feels guilty because I know. I know his actions have led us to this point in time. Sherlock is -.

"Dr Watson." He stands at the side and I don't look at him but keep my gaze fixed on the water.

"Mycroft." It seems right that I call him that. His name but no more.

"How are you?"

I let the question age a bit. A pair of black birds fly up from a far tree. Noise. Then silence. "You came all this way to ask me that?"

"Of course not. I am making idle conversation. I know precisely how you are."

"Oh? So how am I, exactly?"

"You frequently fail to keep appointments with your therapist even though you can't sleep and can't concentrate on the simplest of tasks. You have not logged on nor written a single word since it happened. You are without employment and spend your days favouring open spaces, preferably with a view. Here, in this obscure, lonely corner of a park that no one ever visits, you eat two pieces of bread with a single slice of cheese every day for lunch. At night, you stop at the same local and have one pint of Guinness and a plate of ham and eggs over easy. You speak to almost no one and when you are finished, you wander the streets with your hands in your pockets and no apparent destination until you are too tired to go any further. Then you return to the flat, try to fall asleep and fail, then repeat it all the next day. You, my dear Dr Watson, have never been worse."

"I wouldn't say that. I've had at least one day in recent memory that can top it. Do you remember it? Sherlock pitched himself off the roof of St Barts."

There is a momentary silence, then he adds. "I admire your restraint at not apportioning me your usual inflated percentage of the responsibility."

"It goes without saying, doesn't it? If it weren't for you …"

"Yes. If not for me, where might my brother be now? One does wonder."

"What do you want, Mycroft? I'm … I'm busy. You're interrupting."

"Here."

It forces me to look and he hands me the handles of a full plastic bag.

"What's this?" I set it on the bench and the top reveals a flash of fabric. All at once, I feel sick. I know what it is and I don't want it.

"Personal effects. I want you to have them."

"Why?"

"I have no need for them."

"You're a raving sentimentalist. I have news for you. I don't want them either."

"Well then." Mycroft keeps the blank expression steady. "Leave them behind when you go. Or give them away. Do what you like. Nice to see you again, Dr Watson." He begins walking away, evenly metered steps with deliberate purpose and clarity of destination. He meant what he said.

For a long while, I try to ignore the bag. I know very well what it contains. His great coat is on top. I know what else will be there. His gloves, his scarf. The shirt with a blood-soaked collar. The trousers. Even his shoes are there by the looks of odd shape at the bottom. This close, I can even smell cigarettes. Jesus. It is like sitting right beside him but without the asinine commentary.

I have been over those few moments ten thousand times. For a while, they played like an endless loop over and over again until I thought I would go insane. I can feel the memory bubble up again and I try to resist it. I don't want to remember but I recognize that mental aura – the precursor to yet another reboot of the worst moments of my life. Ten thousand and one. It's back again – I can hear his voice. His last words … "good bye, John" … and then he spreads his arms out like Jesus on the cross and pitches forward and I can feel – even now steady and safe on the ground – an insane vertigo from trying to will him back into balance. But he just keeps coming further and further and further until he reaches that point – that point of no return where gravity will not be denied – and the whole of my being – every fibre, every cell, every corpuscle and muscle – reacts. I am scalped by fear and I rip my vocal cords calling out his name and my demand for him to stop. But the reptile part of my brain already knows, even as he falls, that when he lands he will be dead.

I crawled to him. I demanded to be at his side. I was … I AM … his best friend. I had my hand on his wrist, the tips of my fingers instinctively finding that soft, sweet spot for a pulse and felt only one beat. One last beat of his heart before they ripped us apart. They started to rolled him over and for one impossible moment, my heart soared with the hope, the one in a trillion that it was not him. Had I been mistaken? Seen what I had expected to see? There must have been some mistake – some trick – some magic that would make this broken body before me not be him.

But they rolled him over and it was him. His dark curly hair framed his face with curls and gave him a cherubic innocence that women fell for until he opened his mouth and stung them with some waspish truth. It was him. His eyes. His nose and lips. His cheekbones – high and sharp and straight out of a fashion magazine. And then I saw the blood seeping from the back of his brain – flowing like there was an endless supply. Soaking his hair and collar and darkening the cement and hands of the medics who lifted him to the stretcher where an infernal red halo grew on the linen.

I don't know why. He wasn't suicidal. There was no reason for it. He just didn't care what people thought. And no matter what anyone says, it wasn't a grand game – it wasn't magic. Those things he did? He could really do them. It would have been impossible to do it all the time. Once or twice, sure … I might have believed it was careful research and compliance. But it was every day and every last blessed thing. He saw the world with a hawk's eye. Nothing escaped him. Ever. He couldn't turn it off same as he couldn't turn off the colour of his eyes. It was a hard-wired reflex. Like breathing. Seeing compelled him. Once seen, he had to say. It was the only way I think he could get through life. He was a complete pain in the ass and some of it was for show because the rest of us frustrated the hell out of him. But mostly? Mostly it was because that's who he was.

Maybe I'm the only one left who believes in him.

I look at the bag and survey the coat. He wore that coat all the time. Flicked up the collar to accentuate his cheekbones. Vain bugger. All at once, I forget myself and reach in and pull out the coat. It unfurls and then I tuck it into a bit of a bundle and hold onto it against my chest, like a stuffed toy. It's warm. Solid. I rest my head on the fabric and close my eyes. His scent envelops me. There is an odd feeling that creeps into my stomach muscles. That knot that has been there since … it eases a little and I feel strangely comforted.

That night, I carry the bag with me. To my pub. On my random four hour walk around the dark and snaking roads of London. I even call into see Mrs Hudson. I can't give up the bag and won't. That night, instead of a blanket, I use his coat. For once, I sleep and it is dreamless.

The next morning, I empty the bag and lay it out on my bed building a shell of him with clothes. His shoes go on the floor neatly side by each. Socks in the shoes. Undergarments tucked in the trousers and the belt done up. Shirt tucked folded neatly closed and also tucked in. Then right beside it, his great coat and gloves. I stand back. Something is off. I can't quite make it out but know the picture isn't right yet. I frown and check the bag. It's empty. I look back at the clothes and realize what's missing. His scarf.

I check the bag again. It's as empty as before. No scarf. Then I check the sleeves of his coat. And then the pockets. Still no scarf.

Sherlock always wore his scarf. Didn't he? I shut my eyes and recall the image of him putting it on; two ends pulled through a single loop and tugged into place. It was effortless, automatic, graceful. Was he wearing his scarf that day? Of course he was. Sherlock always wore his scarf. Did I remember seeing it, though? You see what you expect to see. That's what he would say. Maybe he wasn't wearing it? I can't remember. My memories of the day don't focus on his bloody scarf.

The puzzle sends me to the one chair in the room and I slink down deep to think. Where is the scarf? There is a rip in the wallpaper opposite me that I focus on while I consider the point. If I had it, I have lost it. If I never had it, where is it? After a good half hour of thought, I haven't got much past that. Either way, I have to go looking. The very idea makes me queasy. I have been so many places.

Starting in my room, I consider where I was when I took out the coat. I look under furniture, between gaps, in drawers. I comb the place from top to bottom. Then I go outside to trace what I remember of my steps backwards. It takes me hours through the streets, a pub or two, the full area of the park. Maybe someone found it and picked it up. It was cashmere. Who wouldn't?

My search turns up nothing. Despite what Sherlock might have said on the subject, I am a rational man. A man of science. If I never had it, then he never wore it. And if he never wore it, I know exactly where it is. 221B Baker Street.

I double over.

Jesus.

I am going to have to go back.


	4. Chapter 4 Lestrade

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade – File 12-548A-W1

The siren drowns out the voice and I catch only the last part of the message before the traffic clears for me. The windshield wipers splash and whine away at high speed but my visibility is not significantly improved. I take the turn wide anyway and key on the police radio. Once I get out on the straight away, I put the radio to my chin.

"Lestrade here. Say again?"

There is a crackling and I catch the last of it. "…cross streets of Bethnell Green and Brick Lane …4431 … police on scene and securing the area …"

There has been increased criminal activity in this area. Not the usual gang work. Weird stuff – ritual killings. High end names. Freakish. This is the second one in three weeks. Things ramped way up after Moriarty died. His body wasn't an hour cold before it started. It happens when there is a power vacuum. He was the invisible puppet master of London crime. With him gone, everyone is clawing and fighting for some footing; everything is up for grabs. No one will ever convince me that Moriarty was just an actor.

When Sherlock Holmes was alive, he served as a counterbalance to crime – at least to the more inventive ones. But he's gone, too. I have no idea what the hell happened on the roof. It would need Sherlock himself to unravel it. Sherlock. There's another you'll never convince me was anything but what we saw. A fraud? Who has that kind of time? If you knew him as long as I did, you'd realize … he was always like that. About everything. An army of people wouldn't be able to do that kind of research; two armies couldn't create the set ups required to make it all work. You could ask Sherlock anything – and I mean anything - and he had an answer. Just like that. Right off the top of his head. And damn if he wasn't always bloody right about things. God. I miss him.

As I turn down the street, I see the scene. It's hard not to miss. It's night; raining and every car has their light bars blazing. Everything is a reflective surface in this wet and the beams are bouncing everywhere; it's as bright as noon. I announce my arrival to dispatch and start getting out of the car. My cell blasts out a ring and I don't check caller ID.

"Lestrade." I talk and walk. A constable lifts the police tape and I duck under and head towards the flashing lights.

"Hello. Is this the Detective Inspector?" A familiar voice but I can't place it.

"Yes. Who is this?" I get to the front steps and I spot Anderson dressed in Tyvek, heading in with an ident kit. He doesn't look happy. Without Sherlock to provide relief for the strange stuff, we are all starting to feel the burden of necessary hard work beginning to pile up. If a case was beneath him, he would still sometimes give us a hint. Once he told me it was just to get the story on the front page to change. Was it pity on us plodders? Or a mental itch he just had to scratch? I don't know. It cut out a lot of wasted time. With him gone, we know appreciate him. He still makes some of us feel stupid. I just miss the help.

"It's Mrs Hudson, dear." Her voice is tense; hardly above a whisper.

I stop walking and pay attention. Donovan approaches but I put up a hand to stop her before she starts talking.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"I need you to come to 221B. Please. I don't know what else to do…"

"What's happened?" A series of possibilities flash through my mind. 221B can be a dangerous place. When Sherlock lived there, it was a right shit magnet.

"It's Dr Watson. I need you to come …"

"Mrs Hudson…" I catch Donvoan as she rolls her eyes. She knows very well who Mrs Hudson is. Donovan is not a fan of anyone connected to Sherlock Holmes. I lower my voice and get some distance so she can't overhear. "… I am halfway across town. I'm at a crime scene at the moment. Can I send someone over … "

"I need **you**, Inspector."

"What's the matter?"

"I need you to talk to Dr Watson. He's … he's here. Something is wrong." All at once, her voice hushes into nothing and I strain to hear her. "Please …"

In all the time I have known her, Mrs Hudson has never once called for help when she didn't need it. That went double for John. It is completely inappropriate but I go anyway because the woman who Sherlock introduced as the bedrock of the British Empire sounded like she was about to cry. It takes some doing to extricate myself. Associating with Sherlock Holmes as much as I have has given me a lot of practice at delivering vague but credible excuses. The key – he always said and it proves true – is to wrap the lie in a truth. I make my living trying to discern the difference so when I do it, I have the advantage of knowing a few of the right combinations to use.

Mrs Hudson stands on the bottom step of the staircase at 221B. Above, the apartment doors are open. I can hear footsteps – purposeful, precise – no attempt at stealth. Then there is the shifting of furniture, opening and shutting of drawers that was done with energy.

"What's happened?'

"He's here. Upstairs in the apartment. Windows wide open with the rain coming in. He's tearing things apart."

I take a step or two beside her and try to get past but she stops me.

"Be careful." She shakes her head. "He's not … well."

Upstairs, I get to the doorway and John has his back to me. He has his head down and he is going through the desk drawer with a mechanical precision. Item after item he meticuloulsly removes and drops to the side, then goes on to the next. He isn't just looking for something – he is on a mission, highly focused on an objective. He is muttering to himself and I catch the last of it.

"Where the devil would he put it? … **has** to be here …"

I step in and cross half the distance between us before I call out to him. "John."

All at once, he whirls reaches out with one hand as if to block an attack and reaches his other hand behind his back. The hackles of my neck go up. I know the meaning of that move. Without seeing any more, I know that he has his gun tucked into the back of his belt and he has his index finger through the trigger and the handle in the palm of his hand. He has the military poise to wait but one more surprise and he will draw.

I put my hands up in the air in a subdued surrender and freeze. All at once, I give Mrs Hudson full credit. She was completely right about the situation. It looks like a bomb has gone off. Rain is streaming down the windows onto the sills. It's freezing in here.

"John? It's me."

He blinks at me but does not move.

I try again. "John? What … what's going on?" It's supposed to sound casual. I have no idea how it's perceived because I cannot stop my inside voice from screaming at me about the gun.

He looks from me to Mrs Husdon who has appeared beside me. She is standing with one arm gripped around her middle and the other pressed against her lips. She's all bottled up and willing herself not to cry.

"I can't find his scarf." It's hardly a whisper but I hear every word.

"What?" I don't know what he's talking about. "Whose scarf?"

"Sherlock's."

It makes sense to him and what I want most is to get his hand off his gun and then get the gun away from him. But I can't get to the gun until I sort out the scarf. Creating a sense of calm is my aim. I keep still and keep my hands where they are.

"You can't find Sherlock's scarf." I repeat slowly, to make sure we understand each other. I let there be a bit of quiet before I say anything more. John hasn't moved a muscle – he is frozen in place – and he still has the hair-trigger stance. I put my hands up a bit more and move a bit so that it catches his eye. "John? Can I come over?"

"Alright. Sure." He starts to breathe again and I get the sense he is working up to something so I let the silence draw out. I wait for him to relax and don't come forward until his shoulders drop a fraction. As I near, he takes a single step back. My phone rings and he reacts; his stance is re-established. The ring tone is loud – set to be overheard at a noisy crime scene. The sound fills the room as the tune keeps up its absurd summons.

"John?" I am still showing him my palms but I want more than anything to shut my bloody phone off. "…uh … is there any way we can … sit down for a minute?" I take a step or two towards a seat. Calm begets calm. He slowly unfurls from his position and the slowness of my movement seems to settle him. The place is cold and damp; I shiver.

"Fine. Yes. Good."

We both sit down eyeing each other in that awkward "I'll go if you go" stand off. We become seated opposite each other and our movements are so coordinated it is almost ballet. By the time we are seated, the phone is silenced but a beat later, the message tone goes off in another loud burst. I grab my phone and turn it off. Bloody hell!

Mrs Hudson is still hovering at the door as I settle. Everything is stilted and uneasy. The voice in my head is still vying for my attention. Then it occurs to me to ask. "Mrs Hudson? Would you mind? A cup of tea? John?"

After a calculation, he answers. "Sure." Then adds on, "and biscuits."

"Biscuits, too?" I ask, needlessly repetitive but wanting to keep the conversation going. This silence is crippling. Mrs Hudson agrees to all terms with a nod and escapes the room.

I can feel on my neck that there's a strong breeze coming in through the window behind us. A hard gust blows in rain and cold and flutters the curtains. The motion grabs his attention.

"Can I close that?" I start to stand.

"No." He says it like a gunshot. "I need … I need the air."

I lower myself back to the chair and take a long look at him. His eyes are vacant and his expression unnerves me. Mrs Hudson knew what she was talking about. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week but there is something hard and hungry about him, like a soldier with a mission bent on destruction. He keeps looking around the room, eyes darting here and there; distracted by objects and form and colour. Sitting here is making him edgy; he has the hypervigilant nervousness of a drug addict.

"John." I lean in to talk to him. In part it's an attempt to keep his attention. "What's happened? Are you alright?"

John is not looking at me. He starts chewing his bottom lip and frowns. Then he says, "I'm not crazy, you know."

"No one is saying you are. John. Look at me. Tell me …" I start, "Tell me about the scarf."

"His scarf." It is a statement of absolute fact. Then he levels me with a stare that is a mix of impatience and anger. "Don't tell me you have never noticed his scarf." I swear he is not intentionally being sarcastic but there is an underlying tone of … Sherlock … in his voice. It's funny but I can't laugh so I bite the inside of my cheek and don't smile.

"Yes. Of course. But what's so special about it?'

"It's missing."

"I don't quite follow."

"It shouldn't be."

It occurs to me that the scarf doesn't matter. It's not a clue. There is no case, no mystery to solve. Sherlock is dead. He doesn't need his scarf. Nobody does. There is no meaning to it beyond a representation of Sherlock himself being missing. The mind does strange things to cope with the unbearable. This is not weakness; this is suffering. John has been through a lot – more than most – I take his situation seriously. He deserves respect and dignity. He needs help but not the kind that I can give. I remain silent while I consider how best to continue.

The quiet wears on and we can both hear Mrs Hudson with the kettle. Tea cups are placed on a tray and there is a soft clatter of spoons.

"I know what you're thinking." John says to me after a while.

"What's that?"

"This isn't grief, you know. His scarf. It's actually missing." He frowns and I have the feeling he wasn't talking to me anymore. "It shouldn't be. But it is." He bites his lip again and looks around - up down - left right - his eyes still searching for what he has lost.

"John." He stares at the bullet holes in the wall and doesn't hear me again. "John. Why don't we have our tea first then take another look around. Together. See what we can see. It might be here. You know how he was. Could be squirreled away anywhere, for all we know."

I let us be in silence for a while. He is starting to breathe with deeper sighs. Things are starting to ease up and I take a risk and ask, "John? I don't mean to pry. You never came back here … after … things. Do you … know where your gun is?"

His face blushes. He stares at me and I get the impression that all at once, he comes completely back into his senses.

"Yes."

We wait a while.

"Can I have it?"

Slowly, he reaches behind, pulls out his gun and hands it over to me.

"Jesus." John slumps as he closes his eyes and rests his head back in the chair. "I am losing my mind."

"Maybe." I say. "But what's a little crazy between friends?"


	5. Chapter 5 Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes – mental notes 

No one makes a better ham sandwich than Mrs Hudson. She uses a light Dijon that she buys in a high end specialty shop. It's light but intensely flavourful and makes all the difference in the taste. She also uses bakery bread and double wraps the diagonal halves in saran to keep them fresh. The double wrap is a little more expensive in time and cost but to cut this essential corner would destroy everything.

As I approach, I notice a van parked outside 221B. White. Suggests a tradesman. As I near, I see the back door has palm marks at the handle. Paint but not just one colour. There is a film of sawdust on the windows. I look up and the second floor window is open. My apartment. Renovation? Not likely. Mrs Hudson is nothing if not sentimental. She would not have changed the rooms. Not yet. There has been damage of some kind – urgent enough to have immediate repair. That suggests water damage. This is London. It always rains but none so much as two weeks ago as overnight torrentials that caused localized flooding.

I wonder what happened.

I enter the shop. The bell on the door isn't enough to have her lift her head. She is an attentive shop keeper so this is unusual. I find the ham sandwich and place my choice on the counter and then add a packet of crisps from the rack. She finally notices me and tends the till with absent-minded rote.

"That's four pound seventy, dear." Her head is down. She hasn't looked at me yet.

I dig into my pocket and pull out a deliberately crumpled five pound note. I give it an ironing with my palm before I hand it over and then point up over head. I lower my voice and use a Russian accent. "Is renovation?"

She keys in my five pounds and the register dings and opens the cash tray. Carefully, she counts out change, pulls off the receipt and hands me both. We make eye contact. There isn't a flicker of recognition. Why? I have brown eyes now; I am unshaven and have put grey into both my beard and my hair. I wear a hat with a severe brim and have taken a foot off my height by affecting slouched shoulders and a stance that includes deeply bended knees. Also – in Mrs Hudson's simple-minded world - dead men do not come in to buy sandwiches.

"No, dear." She says. There is a cup of tea on the counter behind her but it is the wrong time of day for tea. The milk has filmed on the surface; she made it and then let it go cold. The dark circles under her eyes suggests lack of sleep. Lack of sleep means she is worried but about … what? Until recently, I have been the leading cause of her chronic worry. But now I am dead. What I detect is worry, not sadness. Her shop is doing well; I have seen to it. I list out a string of people who are possible preoccupations and eliminate them quickly by being either not close enough to warrant this level of anxiety or not having even the potential for any genuinely serious concerns. There is, however, the construction on the second floor. There is only one other person who would have unlimited access to that space and the only person who could cause Mrs Hudson this kind of worry. John Watson.

I wonder what happened.

"But still. Is work." I challenge her and tidy the stack of business cards on her counter.

"Yes. I'm afraid the windows were left open in a bad storm. Bit of water damage. Nothing serious." She tries to make a light hearted excuse but the way she says it suggests the exact opposite. Something awful happened and she is worried sleepless about it.

"Is not good. Must get new people."

She sighs. She knows what I mean but argues the point. "I don't want any new tenants. What I want are my boys back."

"Sons." I nod. "Sons good for you."

"Not sons. But they are my boys. One's … one's passed away. The other is … not doing so well at the moment. Poor dear. It breaks my heart."

"I help."

"Nothing you can do, I'm afraid." She shakes her head. "Nothing any of us can do. He's getting proper help now, which is a mercy. That took a bit of doing, I don't mind telling you. He has a good friend who's willing to come at a moment's notice. It's all sorted now. What he needs now is time." She eyes me fiddling with the cards. "You want a few more this time? Help yourself. That's what they're there for."

"I give to brothers. They have big friends. Many people. To come here." I pick up sandwich and crisps. "For good eating." I put the extra cards in my pocket and nod for my departure.

Something has happened to John.

There are few job openings for a deceased consulting detective; fewer still for those who lack a valid and appropriately credibly fake identity. Thanks to Mycroft's interference in the matter and his expectation that I keep out of sight, I am temporarily left without either. So lacking identification but sporting a disguise and a Russian accent, I found employment as a janitor. Such work ensures I work at night when there is no one else around. Lack of contact helps keep me out of sight and harm's way. With information from Mrs Hudson, I had one office in particular that I desired access to and a particular file of great interest to me. All the rest was simply execution of a plan.

John's therapist is consistent with locking up her files but unfortunate in the low quality of lock. Access is only delayed momentarily. The file is easy to find. She has a good sense of order. Third drawer. Eighth file following the "W" tab divider. It is an inch thick.

I laid the file out on the desk and open it. Right side contains a series of consent forms, communications with the military and on the left, in reverse order from latest to earliest, her extensive interview notes. There – I find the abbreviated and well-documented medical history of Dr John Watson. Some of it he has told me. Some of it I have correctly surmised. Then there is the date of my death. What remained would be news.

I start to zero in on the break in the time line. I reach the period of sustained improvement and little activity. Then a newspaper article where I am prominently featured wearing that ridiculous hat. His name is underlined as is the phrase "Dr Watson's blog is a must read. An engaging, natural writer that creates a perfect balance of story and entertainment." The next article is front page news of my death. The next page is simply line after line of cancelled sessions. Then there is a date and time notation of a telephone conversation with a DI Lestrade. His name is starred as is the single added word "firearm". The notes began anew.

" … was witness to traumatic death of friend SH (see clipping). Has been unable to focus, retain employment. Severe bouts of insomnia and re-emergence of post traumatic stress. Refuses meds b/c of ensuing mental haze and physical side effects. Insistence of wanting to remain "alert and in my right mind." Triggered by smells and confined spaces. Location – esp 221(pt shared w SH) also triggering intense emotional response. Has not returned home as a result. Recent unexpected return of personal effects of SH. Pt has become overly preoccupied with contents. Pt appears paranoid and manically obsessed about a missing scarf. This dominates conversation and pt has taken excessive steps to locate it. Pt is aware of irrational attachment but powerless to stop. Has had significant manic episodes related to scarf including recent police-related incident. No charges laid. Cannot help but think that if pt locates scarf it would provide substantial closure and relief of symptoms …"

I slap the file shut. The rest is repetition.

I fairly knew the tremendous burden my suicide would be upon him and I placed all my faith in him that he would be strong enough to survive it. He is not a weak man - he is stalwart and brave and has the capacity to withstand almost anything. It has seized my conscience about what I have done to him. But I had to call. It had to be me to tell him. Then I forced him to watch. I demanded it. There was no other choice. Even as I – Sherlock Holmes – told him what was happening, he denied it all. His ability to disregard all facts and simply believe what he wants is epic. Beyond understanding. And yet – despite me telling him that it was over and everything destroyed – he chose instead to believe in magic and illusion. No. Not quite true. He chose to believe in my mastery of it. Not just believe it – but grab hold to it with an iron grip and an unshakable certainty as he would any fundamental principle of life. Like gravity or the existence of light and air. How can I be held in such high regard and not have my soul mutilated by deliberately betraying such a man as that?

Once off the roof and even as I lay dying, I put all my weight on my right arm and panicked that I would not have enough time to achieve the effect. The tiny rubber ball sewn into my right underarm blocked the blood flow so he would not feel a pulse. He is a battle-tested physician. His abilities under fire are acute. If he reached me, he would go to my neck first but if obstructed, he would instinctively go for my wrist. I could not stop the pulse at my neck and the others … by their movements they naturally corralled him to my hand. I nearly gasped when he touched me. His grip was hard; his goal unhesitating. I could not bear the sound of grief in his voice and I wanted to grab his hand. One last time. To let him know it wasn't really real, that I was alive. But I had to let him go. I had to let him believe.

The human mind is both resilient and fragile; John's is both these things. I know him better than anyone else and regard him as the only true friend I have but I did not appropriately understand that my suicide would be his undoing. Perhaps I thought I did not matter as much to him as he did to me because of our relative imbalance of friends. He can make them and keep them; I cannot. Yet I had no choice. It was vital that he witness the illusion. There was simply no other option. I had to sacrifice his mental state to save not only him but Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. His survival of this is heroic and one day – one day I shall tell him so to his face. He is the toughest man I know, the most reliable and the most faithful of friends. But I needed him to believe the suicide. If he believed it, then it would ensure the rest of the world did, too. He is my intimate biographer; a competent physician and friend. Who else would anyone believe?

Then, I ask myself. "Where the devil is my scarf?"

I put the file aside and sit back in the chair, steeple my hands and rest my chin. The subdued lighting is a soft glow to the series of scenes that flash before my eyes. It takes three attempts but I put them in order.

My scarf was with me until the morgue. Molly had to dress the corpse. The corpse would be delivered to the funeral home and then stripped, the clothes then returned to Mycroft who then gave them to John. It should have been a closed loop but there was a break somewhere. Of all those handlers, who was the most likely to keep the scarf? Mycroft knows I am alive and – moreover – is not fond of clutter. The funeral home makes a living retrieving items and would have no gain or need in keeping a scarf and would possibly suffer if they did so and the theft discovered. They could have lost it but I doubt it – such collections are done in a closed, clean room. Anything missed would be easily spotted. That left Molly. Dear unthinking Molly. While she knows I am alive she – unlike Mycroft – has a strong romantic streak and has spent the last three years trying and failing to get my attention. The scarf would be a token – to her – something literally to remember me by.

There is a limit to the amount of suffering I am willing to inflict upon a friend. This mania he had – it was too much. I have an obligation to retrieve the scarf for him. Without the scarf, he would always have a reason to search, to ask, to question and investigate. It would never be truly over. Knowing him he would blunder in somewhere he shouldn't and arouse permanent suspicions in the most dangerous of quarters and not be the slightest bit aware of it. His mere searching would be sign enough for some. He cannot see or understand the world of crime as I do. Producing the scarf is the only way to keep him silent. He does not deserve this torment and I am the only one uniquely situated to resolve it.

Retrieving the scarf is simple enough. Breaking in requires only to wait for an appropriate night out where I can get in and out of her apartment. Inside, I consider where she would hide it and go straight to her bedroom. It is an intimate thing and she would not risk accidental exposure. I draw open the door to her closet and look beyond the first layers to things obscured in the back. There is a box on the top shelf – a shoe box – that is too light for shoes and of a manufacturer design that has been revised two years ago. I take it down and open it. I peel away the tissue and there is my scarf, perfectly preserved. I remove it and replace it with a bag of crisps. It is a calling card. I believe she will know where it came from and she is bound by silence and honour not to say anything to anyone about her loss. She will know it was not hers to have in the first place.

Once I have the scarf, I consider the most expedient way of returning it to John.

I can, of course, break into his apartment as easily as I have broken into Molly's. Yet there is a difference: and that difference is the consequences of discovery. In the highly unlikely event that such a thing occurred, if Molly had accidentally seen me, there would be no harm done. She knows I am still alive. But John? John has no such advantage. When next John sees me, it will be because I have returned. I owe him that and a world of penance more.

In the end I return to Mrs Hudson's and leave the scarf on a little-used table in her drawing room. Memories will be sufficiently blurred that it will be possible that I had simply left it there. She is a woman beyond reproach; there will never be doubt about what has happened.

Once she finds the scarf, she will know what to do with it and will be a hero for it.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Thank you for reading this five-chapter story. If you enjoyed it (or even if you would like to nitpick), feel free to leave a comment. Feedback is always greatly appreciated.

If not, feel free to bookmark it and re-read it. I hope the second reading of it proves as enjoyable as the first. :D


	6. Chapter 6

This was supposed to be a 5-chapter exercise. A couple of readers wrote some really kind things about it and now I am in the process of writing another 5. This is the first chapter of the next bit. Or sixth chapter over all. However you are keeping track, please enjoy. Feedback always appreciated.

Chapter Six - The Personal Diary of Molly Hooper

DI Lestrade never is one for laughter. Not around me, anyway. He's nice enough, of course. But he always seems a little worn out. That's the hours, I suppose. He was happier before he split with his wife. It was messy. He laughs even less now.

They call him the old man behind his back. I don't. He's not old. Well – not in years, anyway. Maybe in experience. He is a bit sour when he has everyone at him for results. I don't blame him. He has a complicated job. It starts with violence. Then it's him that talks to them - the families, the witnesses. All that outpouring of grief and emotion. How do you keep it from eating away at you? I don't know how he does it. Then there are the days when the press won't leave him alone. I think that must be terrible. They say such horrible things about him. Some days they just make things up, then every reader becomes an armchair Inspector and thinks he's done things all wrong. It is bad enough when I have Sherlock Holmes telling me what I have done particularly badly and pointing out all my errors. I can't image an entire city doing it.

After … it happened … with Sherlock Holmes ... it was like dam had burst. Violence. Perversion. Awful. Upsetting even if you are prepared for it. Lestrade ended up in the middle of it like always.

When the first body appeared, the press seized the case immediately. It was the wrong part of town. But what made it sensational were the connections. This had been the wife of a business tycoon – a self-made man who sold himself as a model of clean, inspired living. His family was a model for the ages; he had it all and wrote books to reveal the secrets. Be Who You Want to Become. Live Your Life. Dare to Ask. Get what You Want and More. I have all the books. Underlined the passages that I want to remember and try to practice. Then his wife ended up dead – suspended in mid-air wearing leather and a horse bridle her mouth - in a part of town that she had no reason to be in. It set the press on fire. Two more bodies followed. Each more sensational that the last. All in the same vein. Lestrade has been front page news five days in a row. I don't know how he can do his job with cameras and reporters and that terrible pressure of everyone watching and guessing and second guessing. I guess it's no wonder he doesn't smile.

By the time he comes to the morgue, most of the evidence has been shipped in and we are underway with analysis. He gets the pleasantries out of the way with my supervisor then sidles up to me. My supervisor oversees things but I do the actual work. There is value in that. He has come to see for himself. To talk and not just to read it on a report. I also work in a restricted area. It's quiet. No press allowed.

He always has a please and thank you. Nice, that. Sometimes he apologizes if he can see he's interrupting. Or if he is setting an unreasonable deadline. I don't mind, of course. It's my job. It's what I signed up for. I know Lestrade appreciates it. I can tell.

Lestrade paces back and forth behind the bench as I work. He is waiting for results. It had been half a day. There had been no news. No pressure he says. Take your time. Only now would be helpful. I couldn't say no, could I? He takes three phone calls in succession. Each one is a reporter; each one gets a progressively curt reaction.

As I set up the slide series, he flips his phone aside and slumped onto the lab stool beside me. I put the first slide in and start adjusting the microscope. I make a few notes and he pulls the sheet aside so he can read it then puts it back when he's done.

"Carry on."

My phone beeps and I can tell by the phone number it's one of my girlfriends. She's calling to remind me about tonight. I can tell by the volume of work, my plans are cancelled. I pick up the phone and have an abbreviated chat. I try to pick words that hide what's happened. It's Friday. We were all going to put on our prettiest dresses and high heeled shoes, then put do up our hair. Then we were going to go out for drinks and have a nice night out on the town. I don't get out as often as I should. I work a lot. When I hang up, I catch Lestrade watching me.

"Sorry." He says it in a way that makes me think he has heard the entire conversation. I feel a blush go into my cheeks.

"How are things, then?" The conversation is a diversion. It is better than the silence choking me.

"Fu-ah-riggin' cluster." He navigates his way around some word choice changes. "I just need a day without any more bodies! A lead or two would be nice." He adds. "Everyone knows the killings are all related. But there's no thread. Nothing to link it all together save some theatrical aesthetic for the perverse."

I pull back a fraction from the microscope to take a sidelong look at him. I am not sure if I should answer. I think of something to add and get ready to speak but he went on without me.

"God, I miss him." He says. "I mean. He was a complete pain in the ass. Arrogant. Condescending. I tell you what. Half my officers wanted nothing more than to punch him in the throat. And to be honest, I can't blame them. I'd be lying if I said I didn't want to beat the living daylights out of him a time or two. He never had any kind of way with people. Calculating. Inhuman."

He stops momentarily. I keep focus on the microscope and make a refinement, a notation then switch to a higher powered lens. I slip in a comparison slide then wonder if the pause was for me to respond. I can't tell him that Sherlock Holmes is alive. But like all secrets, it's hard to find something else to say when the truth is a crushing weight. My mind is a complete blank except for Sherlock Holmes. I press my lips together, afraid I might let something slip. Or there might be something in the tone of my voice. I need to think of something else to say. Then it occurs to me. I open my mouth to speak but he cuts me off.

"But he was so … bloody … good. Never once let me down. Dammit!" He wipes his face with his hand to revive him from fatigue. "I could sure use him right about now."

"What … what about Dr Watson?" Not that he is anything like Sherlock Holmes. But still. He might understand. At least the medicine part. He might see something differently. Spark an idea. Sherlock was always saying that about Dr Watson. Surely that was something.

"Dr Watson has his own troubles at the moment." His reflections end abruptly. It is not something he wants to talk about. To cover it, he rushes me to a conclusion. "Well? Human hair?"

I shook my head. "Cat." But I want to go back to Dr Watson. What happened? Was he alright? What troubles? All at once, I consider calling on him. Then I dismissed it because – well – we weren't like that. I don't call on Dr Watson. Not without invitation. Still … I liked Dr Watson very much. I don't want there to be anything wrong.

"Right. Cat. Not much." He said and shoved himself away from the lab bench. "But it's something." Then the full weight of it hits him. "God almighty. I'm looking for a cat." He wipes his face again. "A fucking bloody cat. Let's hope the press don't get hold of that…"

We take his observation in silence and he realizes what he's just said.

"Sorry."

"I understand." I say but he's already halfway across the floor on his way out.

After he leaves, I carry on but my work is clouded by memories of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. When I get home, I am tired because overtime has eaten away my evening and my lovely plans that I had been looking forward to for weeks. Towards the end of the day, I had just hoped for a break and to catch a bit of telly. Now home, all I want to do is turn my mind off from results and scans and tests and reports and trying to keeping it all straight. I slip into my pyjamas first thing and then eat over the sink.

All the talk with Lestrade has put Sherlock Holmes in mind. Even home, I find myself still thinking of him. Who knows where he is? Well, I suppose he does. Maybe his brother does too but I'm not sure if they get on so well. Still, I like to think that without Dr Watson, there's someone else that cares he is alive. There should be. Being alone is lonely. Quiet. No. Not quiet. Silent. But no one should ever be that alone.

I know this case – this bizarre string of murders – is right up his alley. He would love this. I thought of him for a while longer and it occurs to me to get out his scarf. It is a way of bringing him close, summoning his spirit. It is daft. I know. I open my closet anyway and take down the box – a lovely old shoe box – orange and bearing the brand name of a high performance company. On the edge of my bed I sit and set the box on my knees. I lift up the lid away from me and I gasp. The scarf. It is gone. In its place, a bag of chips. When did -? All at once I look up and around. Is he still -? Here? How did-?

I call out his name but the room remains silent. I haven't checked this box in weeks. He is probably long gone. I gaze at the chips and smile. Of course he would leave something behind. A calling card. A message that he knows I will understand. If he had been here, he would have simply held up his finger to his lips and committed me to silence. It will be another secret we share. Carefully, I keep the chips where they were and close up the box.

Where ever he is, I guess he needs his scarf.

I wonder what for.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven - Mrs Hudson – Thoughts she has kept to herself

The last customer leaves after the lunch rush and I check my cup on the counter. My tea has gone cold again. Oh dear. It will need refreshing. I should make myself another pot but my Brown Betty makes more sense for two. It would be so much easier if Dr Watson could bring himself to come back. I wish he would. It's not for lack of my asking. I have asked him round with a standing invitation for breakfast. Whenever he feels fit enough. Bacon and eggs and anything else he likes and leave all the rest to me. Still, with all that, he won't come.

I mean, I understand what with the war and all. Even when he was here and Sherlock was alive, he used to get night terrors. If I was up in the middle of the night – gone to the loo or still up watching telly - I'd hear him shout out. A word – just one – like he was giving a command. Sometimes he cried out and he sounded afraid. Other times, it was a warning. First time it happened, it gave me a start, I don't mind telling you. I was fair up the stairs thinking something had happened, but then I heard his footsteps and I knew he was up and about. There was nothing further and I didn't want to pry so I assumed it was a dream what woke him. It seemed intrusive to make myself known so I crept back down stairs and didn't say a thing more about it. Every time he'd have an episode, he'd have a few nights of insomnia afterwards. I'd hear him upstairs walking about – to and fro – not loudly mind – he doesn't stomp about like Sherlock did. He would just pace – back and – forth wandering lost in a confined space. Restless. Unable to settle.

I hadn't seen Dr Watson in two weeks. I gave him a ring last Saturday just to see how he was. He didn't sound chipper at all. Down, he was. Very down. Like he'd lost his best friend. Which of course he has, poor dear. And he can't seem to get over it – though the more I think of it – the way Sherlock went about it – makes my blood boil. I can't for the life of me think why he did it. Why? Despite what the papers say, Sherlock didn't care two pins for his reputation. Surely he knew enough to talk to someone if he was that upset. He could have come to me. Or Dr Watson. Or even his brother, come to think of it. And I don't know why he went out of his way to do … it … in front of poor Dr Watson. Sherlock knew Dr Watson's state. And all that time Dr Watson, too, when he was such a friend to him. What Sherlock did was cruel beyond measure. That's not what you do to a friend. It isn't. No matter how much suffering you have. Not to a dear friend like Dr Watson.

I just wish … I wish that Sherlock could have found someone to talk to. If we had known, maybe it we could have done something. Like we have for Dr Watson. It's a mercy that Inspector Lestrade came when he did, I can tell you that. I've never been more grateful to see him as I did that night. I was well terrified that Dr Watson was going to do some terrible harm to himself. He was tearing the apartment apart with the windows wide open and rain just pouring in like the forty days' flood. I think he went out of his mind a bit that night. All I can say is he's a good man is Inspector Lestrade and thank God he came. That was also the night of the first killing and he had his hands more than full but the Inspector he came and spent half the night just talking to Dr Watson in an easy, unperturbed way he has as if he didn't have a care in the world or anywhere else to be. After it all, and Dr Watson came round, the Inspector was able to get him to some help. Insisted on driving Dr Watson to hospital himself in a police car. Wouldn't hear of anything else. I have a half a mind to think that it was the Inspector's way of making sure he went. Front of the line, that's what the Inspector said. He'd make sure that Dr Watson went straight to the front of the line and get the best care or there would be hell to pay. They put Dr Watson in the hospital for several nights so they could have a look at him all upside down and sideways.

The first night, Inspector Lestrade comes to see me and we have a hot cuppa in the kitchen. I serve him a nice slice of ginger cake that he seems to be quite taken with. We have a long talk about this and that and then he asks if I don't mind serving him a second piece. Well of course. Imagine me not. There we are just the two of us chatting away. He sits on the edge of the chair as he does – usually doesn't quite relax does the Inspector – and eventually we finish up the pleasantries and the second serving of cake and we ease around to talking about Dr Watson.

"They're keeping him for observations. He's dehydrated. A couple of low levels in his blood. Iron and the like. Lost weight. Running him through a series of assessments. He's not very happy about it. He wants out." He takes a sip of tea. "I am unsympathetic."

"Poor dear." I say. "Doctors never are ones for being patients, are they. I'm glad he's where he is. The whole thing gave me an awful fright."

"Yeah. I'm glad you called me when you did." He takes another sip and adjusts the spoon then turns the tea cup handle this way and that as if he is working up to a question.

"Out with it, dear."

"What?"

"Out with it. Whatever is on your mind. I'm not a detective but I'm not stupid, either. What do you want to know?"

A flicker of amusement crosses his face and he looks down. When he lifts his head, it is gone. "It's a silly question. Do you know what he was after that night?"

"Not really. No."

He thinks about it for a while and then says. "Sherlock's scarf."

"All that fuss? For Sherlock's scarf? The blue one?" It all seems so out of scale. Then I realize the Inspector is serious and is patiently waiting for more. "Yes. I know the one. His brother gave it to him, I think. Was a bit of a joke of some kind. What did he call it … "fulfillment of a perfunctory seasonal obligation". Sherlock didn't seem to think much of it until I said I liked it because it brought out the blue of his eyes. Never knew Dr Watson to take any note of it."

"Do you know where it is?"

"What. Sherlock's scarf?"

"Yes."

"No idea, dear. I haven't touched any of their things since … well … I haven't seen it. What does Dr Watson want with it, after all? Seems an odd thing to be after … no value, really, is there?"

"I know. I don't understand it, either. But he was fixated on it. I was hoping you'd seen it and knew where it was … I think …" He lowers his voice and he talks as if he is letting me in on a secret. "… in his mind, finding that scarf is going to get him … past … what's happened. It's beyond me. But I think there's a whole lot of something wrapped up in that scarf that he can't explain."

"Well. I'll let you know if I find it." When I say it, I don't hold out much hope for it since Dr Watson had already made complete work of the upstairs. Complete work and then some, frankly. I hadn't thought that place could get any messier but Dr Watson proved me wrong. Still, there is no harm in looking so I take a few passes around their apartment looking here and there hoping to find it. I tidy things up a bit while I am there. I don't ever find the scarf but do find a few dishes I had been missing buried under newspapers including three saucers lined up along the floor boards and a soup spoon on a bookshelf. Honestly. That man.

It is no more than a day or two later. I am in the parlour for a bit of dusting. I don't use the parlour that much. It's a tad stuffy and formal and not really a good place for a nice natter between friends but I do like to keep up appearances since the room faces the front. As I do, I shake out the antimacassars and do a spin with the feather duster. Then, as I am rounding the far corner and starting towards the front window sill, a dark flash of blue catches my eye. I hardly see it, really. But there is a spark in my mind and I freeze in mid go. Then I look. Once. Twice. I approach; closer and closer I inch to it, tentative but certain of what I see.

"Oh!"

I know what it is at once. Sherlock's scarf. Dr Watson's scarf. THE scarf! I lower the feather duster and stare for a moment. The cashmere sits in a sublime heap, as if Sherlock had just now entered the room and removed the scarf and set it aside in a careless toss. He might have simply wandered in and out without being seen. Speechless, I gazed at it as the sun poured in the front window and deepened the blues with warmth.

I don't want to disturb anything, you see. It is such an odd thing to know that the last hands to touch it had been his. The carelessness of the bundle was so like Sherlock, too. He never was one for orderliness. Things thrown hither and yon. No wonder he lost his scarf with him setting it down wherever he took it off. I lift my hand and gently brush the fabric with the back of my hand – as you do with the cheek of a beloved child. The cashmere is so beautiful and soft. Elegant and rich. His. I can see Sherlock in my mind's eye – all wonderful and tall with that shock of dark, curly hair that made him so handsome. I can see him - standing right here – strong and full of life – on a stop that is only a pause because he is running off to some great emergency that thrills him. He pulls on the scarf – flicks it into place and then on with his coat and Dr Watson right on his heels following in his wake. Both of them off to God only knows what.

I play around with the edges and work my way to picking up the scarf knowing that I am disturbing the final remnants of Sherlock Holmes. A cold draft fills the room and it feels like the last of him is floating away and disappearing for good. I blink quickly and get rid of the moisture that pools in my eyes. Nothing for it now but to carry on. I fold the scarf up neatly and then call Inspector Lestrade.

"Hello, Inspector. It's Mrs Hudson. You'll never guess what I've come across …"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight - The Private Blog of Dr John Watson

Once you are admitted, you can't just walk out of a psych ward. They keep the doors locked. From the outside.

In retrospect, I understand my actions did warrant a reaction of some level but an extended stay here does seem a bit over-zealous. I never actually fired the gun. And I am – as I keep insisting – not crazy. Besides, I've had a bit of a sleep now and feel much better. Right as rain, if anyone asks but it is never convincing enough for them to undo the locks. When I look at the door there is an ominous feeling that wells in my gut since I know that I am trapped here and will have to earn my way out. I don't like confined spaces. I wish the windows opened so I could breathe.

Having said that, there is a persistent calming silence here. I feel my eyes droop and I set aside planning my escape until I've had a nap. I know there are sedatives in the IV because I keep falling asleep. It feels like I have slept more in the last two days that I have in months. And when I'm not asleep, they take me here and there for a battery of tests and cognitive therapies. They speak quietly and make no sudden movements – all designed to keep the mood low key and open. Still, I am aware that these are interviews with professionals. Even the most casual question is important. They expect a breakthrough; they imagine I want the same. I keep telling them. I'm not crazy. Even as I say it I know what they are thinking. Crazy people always say they aren't crazy; you'll need to prove it to me by answering yet more questions. There is a banality and a scripted insincerity to the interviews that sets my teeth on edge. Fortunately, I am familiar with the pathology of mental illness and can navigate through their questions with a fair deal of skill. It is in my best interest so I tell them the truth. Mostly. I know that what I lie about doesn't concern them. If I told them the complete truth, I'd never get out of here. So I give them a little of what they want and a little misdirection. We're both happy.

Their ultimate therapy is no surprise; talking and drugs. They don't like my inarticulate reticence nor my refusal of meds so they use my initial dehydration as an excuse to start the IV, then slip in a good dose of benzodiazepine that gets me to sleep. The tired part of my head doesn't mind; the instinctive survival part is hysterical. I want control but for once, tired wins.

When I open my eyes, the shadows are gone but it's light out. It's grey and raining and the fog makes me think that I am living in a cloud. I am momentarily disoriented and can't tell what time of day it is. I try to remember the last food I ate. All I can recall is a sensation of bland and realize I can't even differentiate among meals. When I look over, Lestrade is at the foot of my bed with a Sainsbury bag. As he approaches, he carries the bag as if he has a dead goose by the neck.

"Here." He lets go the bag and it drops beside my knee. "Grapes. Get well soon." Lestrade is a prince.

I remember the last time we saw each other. I had completely unravelled. Jesus. I very nearly shot him. I am mortified at my behaviour. I close my eyes and wish him away.

"I don't like grapes."

"They warned me that you would be sullen and uncooperative."

It gets my eyes opened. "What?"

His expression is self-satisfied, as if I have reacted just as he predicted. It annoys me. I frown. He is immune.

"Don't give me that look." His bedside manner is atrocious; wholly unsympathetic.

"My medical records." I declare. "They are none of your business."

"I have every right to know what's going on with you. You –" He wags a finger at me, "– assaulted a police officer."

"I … what? I did no such thing. I didn't touch you."

"No. But it's an improvement on what I really should charge you with. You have … had … illegal possession of a fire arm. I could pile on a concealed weapons offence, if you like. And that's not to mention you seriously considered shooting me at one point. That's gross bodily harm. And to an officer of the law, no less. You're lucky I was in good humour and dropped the charges and let you off as I did."

"Alright." I shift and give up, feeling disadvantaged by the sedatives that slow everything down. It occurs to me to remove the IV but I let the urge recede. I tried that once earlier. I was frustrated at being trapped; enraged at the confined space. So I tore it out in one big, clean yank in front of the nurse. It did not end as I had hoped but instead became a loud, pointed discussion that escalated to an audience with the head Matron. She has a sense of humour to rival Lestrade. Everyone conspires against me.

"Are you here to cheer me up?"

"Just wanted to see how you are getting on. Mrs Hudson sends her regards. Sorry she couldn't be here. You're on restricted visitors, you know."

"Lucky me." I say. Then I think of Mrs Hudson. Dear sweet woman. I must have terrified her that night wrenching the windows wide open to a wild storm and then tearing the place apart piece by piece. She must have known that I had my gun, too. I could have killed any of us; all of us. After all she's been through with Sherlock, the last thing she needed was that. She is a good woman and does worry about me so. And now – with that kind of performance and now with me being here - I'm just adding to her burden. The thought prompts me to make a bit of an adjustment to my extreme and narrow world view. There are – I realize – other people grieving and hurting besides me. My lids grow heavy and Lestrade's voice fades away.

xxx

In the middle of the night, I awake. I think there is something in the shadows but can't quite open my eyes. Is there a sound? Sharp. Metallic? A bullet dropping into a chamber? Or a latch on the door? I rouse myself and become alert. My heart races and I have the impression of being watched. I stare in the subdued lighting. Is that movement? My eyes can't focus and I blink hard. Once. Twice. I use my peripheral vision and study the dark with a sideways view. The shadows have encroached and created deep recesses of blackness where anything can hide; snipers, insurgents; phantoms and monsters. Or even Sherlock Holmes. I stop breathing to hear but there … there is nothing. I close my eyes again and know that it's paranoia. Wishful thinking. A dream. Out in the hall, a janitor has his head down and pushes along a bucket and mop. There's no one. Just my mind in overdrive. Again.

Despite the drugs, it takes a long time for me to fall back asleep. The silences of the ward are too short and tonight they are interrupted by noises that are echoes of a battlefield. Then, when I reassure myself I am home; safe in England, I keep thinking that I would have bet my life that Sherlock was here. I know it is my imagination. He is not here. He is dead and buried. I was there when he died. Felt his last heart beat – just as if he were one more soldier I have failed to save. I was also there for the wake. And the burial. How much more proof do I need? The scarf. I need the scarf. But that, too, is irrational. I know there is no other explanation for me wanting the scarf and thinking I see him except grief. That's all it is. I know it because I am a physician; I have seen post traumatic stress both as a doctor and as a patient. It ravages the mind; cripples a healthy body with triggered responses and unstoppable hallucinations. Heaven help me, though, these sensations are so intense, so vivid and unrelenting that I can actually believe they are real. If I cannot get my mind to calm and ease the distress, I am going to have to accept the medications and become a walking corpse; a man deadened by drugs. I won't let that happen. I won't. Sherlock Holmes is dead. I have to move on. I am not crazy … just tired.

xxxxx

I've been awake for a half hour. My head is fuzzy. My mouth is dry but I am nice and warm and comfortable. Even the thought of the hermetically sealed windows don't open, my chest is not so tight today. I don't want to move from this bed. Ever. I look at my arm and the needle and the tape and the extra tape and the third layer on top of that. Gently, I smooth my thumb over the fat bruise where the old IV was. It is still sore and raw. The nurse who had the task of starting the second IV must have graduated last week. She looked like she was fifteen. I think Matron might have told her that I am a doctor. Or a soldier. Or perhaps just a cantankerous, belligerent sod. I've never seen anyone pre-cut so much tape. Half the length of the bed bar was tape and she did not appreciate my comment about it. Her hands shook – a nervous tremour – as if she was afraid to give a live human a proper jab in the arm – afraid of the reaction I would give as a result of the insult of pain. Her IV start failed the first time. Went right through the vein. The second was a mess and she cranked the needle while it was in my flesh to try to catch the vein. I made no secret of my impatience. When it was clear she could not do it, she removed the needle. Then she took a pause and retied the tourniquet and triple tested the primed vein and then I told her that in the war, I had no difficultly starting IVs on screaming injured soldiers while we were crammed in the open back of a mid-air Chinook helicopter under heavy enemy attack. I also told her that if she failed one more time, I was going to take that blessed IV from her and simply do it myself. It made her toughen up enough that she forgot her fear and gave me a hard, proper jab. The flash of blood was her immediate sign of success. To spite me, perhaps, or prove her point, she used every piece of tape to secure it in place.

I follow the long plastic tube from my arm to the top of the IV bag and wonder what drugs they have pumped into me. Are they hallucinogens? Experimental drugs? Ordinary sedatives? Who knows. It could be anything. Or even combination cocktails of all three. And they wonder why I won't go on medications. I've learned a lot during my time with Sherlock Holmes. Just because I'm being paranoid doesn't mean people aren't out to get me. Sherlock Holmes didn't just commit suicide on a whim. Some unknown reason drove him to it. Could that reason be out there still? I focus on a middle space and drift into a haze of memories then in walks Mycroft Holmes and his silent appearance startles me so much I am nearly undone.

"Dr Watson."

"You."

"Come now, Dr Watson. That's hardly sociable."

"I'm in hospital. I don't have to be sociable. And certainly not to you." I stare at him hoping that it will scare him off. It doesn't. I look at his empty hands and try to shame him. "Didn't you bring me anything? No more of Sherlock's personal effects to push me off the deep end? Nothing? Not even grapes?"

"Don't be preposterous." He tilts his head ever so slightly to the side into a perfect angle of condescension. "You don't like grapes."

He is without question as inspiring of loathing as his brother. "Jesus. Is there any reason you are here or are you just wanting to pop in and say hi. Well. Good enough. Hi to you back. Now off you go." I wave my hand to shoo him and the movement sets the IV swinging.

"I need to talk to you."

"What's in this IV?" I change the subject, thinking he of all people can tell me.

"I am a bureaucrat not a doctor. How should I know?"

"I don't believe you."

"Be that as it may, I do need to talk to you. Have you been reading the papers?"

"What? Here? In this swank little lock up?"

"There is little else for you to do, I imagine. The morning papers must make a welcome respite from staring at these dreary walls. They must feel insufferably confining to you."

"No. Not really. I nap. I nap a lot. I have a great deal of sleep to catch up on. In fact, I can hardly stay awake for more than an hour at a time. I think you have something to do with it. What is in this IV?"

"Dr Watson. No wonder you are here behind locked doors. You know, you really should try to abandon your monomaniac tendencies and at least act as if you do not need to be here. I believe it would make a positive impression upon the staff."

"Shut up. Just. Shut up."

"Is that all?"

"Go away."

"Very well. I am nothing if not sympathetic to the sick and infirmed. But before I go, Dr Watson, a word to the wise. If the good Inspector comes by and happens to asks for some help on a case – any case - even if he just wants an unofficial comment or a thought or two from the former associate of my departed brother ... if you wouldn't mind … decline to help. It is not in your best interest to assist."

"Wait. What? You mean Lestrade?"

"You heard me. Decline to help."

"Is that some kind of threat?" I say to him as he turns away. "Come back here, you!"

"Take it however you wish, Dr Watson. Threat. Advice. I am indifferent so long as you simply obey. Decline any and all requests. You will do well to leave the world of detection to the professionals."

"Why? What do you know? Come back here!" I shout after him but he is gone. I want to get up and follow him but all at once, my energy is drained and my lids fall.

xxx

I open my eyes. It's Lestrade. He's back with another Sainsbury bag.

"You again?" I shut my eyes and turn away. "I told you. I don't like grapes."

"My dear Doctor Watson." He says slowly as if every word is a delicious mouthful of whipped cream and strawberries and holds up the bag like a prize. "What I have for you ain't grapes."

His voice sounds wicked, almost evil and it gives me the chills. My scalp crawls and I shiver as I sit up slowly. He mirrors my speed with his approach and it all seems to unfold in slow motion.

"What?"

"Take a look at that." He hands me the bag. It's light and weighs almost nothing. Then he takes a step back and savours the scene as I pull open the top and peer in.

"Jesus!" I stare into the bag and then up at him. "JE-sus!" I don't want to touch it in case it's not real and then I dive in and must clutch it in my hands to make sure that it is and stays real. All at once, I am clenching blue cashmere in my hands and know – absolutely and utterly – that it is real. "Jesus. Where did you FIND it?"

"Mrs Hudson. In her front room off in a corner. He must have taken it off and left it there."

It's his scarf alright; it is without question. I don't need fibre analysis or to check DNA samples or anything other clever test results. It is his scarf. I know it by the way the folds have been creased and worked in by wear after a couple season's of use and the little fray at the end where he caught it once going over a fence. Something locks into place in my mind and I feel a rushing sense of completeness. This is Sherlock's scarf. I can hardly breathe.

I look up at Lestrade and he nods. "Thought you'd like that."

xxx

I walk up Baker Street towards 221B and it feels … comfortable. Like a wool sweater – warm and cosy and familiar. As I near, the doors to Mrs Hudson's shop open and out walks an older grizzled gentlemen – a tradesman of sorts I suppose by his clothes. He steps out onto the sidewalk and we get into each other's way.

"Sorry." I say and stare at him. Big sad brown eyes look up at me. He's thin and pale; hunched a bit with a sore back from a lifetime of hard work. His fingers are dirty and the tips protrude from worn out finger gloves. Then I see what's in his one hand, held close to him as if it were a prized possession. It is a sandwich. The label is hand written by Mrs Hudson. Ham.

Jesus. One of Sherlock's favourites. I take a deep breath and rationalize it in stages until the panic recedes. Of course. People come here all the time to buy sandwiches. Some of them are ham because Mrs Hudson makes ham sandwiches every single day. It's what she does. If people didn't buy them, she wouldn't make them. I have to stop seeing Sherlock everywhere I look if I am going to move on.

"'S'ok?" His voice is a deep Slavic accent. I can't place it. Russian perhaps?

"No. Yes. Fine. Quite fine. Excuse me." I say trying to step around him. He does the same and we dance around and meet again.

"You for here?" He points upstairs and even though he has a language barrier and it's not what he meant, I have the sudden dread that Mrs Hudson is renting the place. All at once I resist the notion. This cannot be happening. Not yet. Then all at once I know. I want to live here again.

"Mrs Hudson and I are … friends. I've come for breakfast."

"You late. Is lunch."

"Yes. Well. More of a brunch, really. Bacon and eggs." I have no idea why I am explaining it. Part of me is back needing to know if she is truly renting out the place. I don't want the place to be rented. It …it wouldn't be right.

"Huh. Need man here." He finally unwinds himself and all at once there's a growing gap between us that I interpret as an unfinished conversation.

"What? Why?" I call after him. "Hey."

"Thief. Everywhere." He's gone before I can do much else. Thieves? There's always been a bit of a shoplifting in the area. Inevitable when there's trade around and people who can't afford things. I look at the door and think to myself, it's a safe neighbourhood but 221B has a reputation now. People know the address. I could keep an eye out for Mrs Hudson. Lestrade might even see his way to giving me back my service revolver. I think … I know … I need to live here again.

I step inside and it feels almost like home.

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback falls like rain on parched soil and always nourishes. If not, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine - Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade – File 12-548A-W1

There's a cab stopped outside 221A with two female passengers in the back seat. It's dark and I can't distinguish their features. Besides, it has been an exhausting day that went wrong almost from the start and was a complete cluster by noon. Now that I am off the clock, I am too tired to care about two women in the backseat of a cab so I don't make any attempt. A sliver of my conscience pricks me and says he would have made the effort and that the only thing that fundamentally sets us apart is nothing more than my lazy failure to pay attention. A single pass and he could know where they bought their groceries and the colour of their toenails. I remind myself that I am a senior officer of New Scotland Yard and not without my own rightful place within one of the most renowned police forces in the world. I am a competent officer; I do not lack for experience, knowledge or skill. Almost everyone pales in comparison to him, I argue, because he is a freak of nature.

"Come in, dear." Mrs Hudson greets me at the front door. "He's upstairs. Go on up."

As I climb the stairs I hear a soft voice, feminine and uncertain.

" … downstairs … waiting. I … I can't stay. You are feeling … alright then?"

"Yes. Much better, thank you." John sounds pleased.

"I … I can't stay." Then there is a rustle. "It's not much. I wanted you to know. That I was thinking of you … Grapes. They are grapes."

"Grapes." There is a pause. It draws out a bit longer. I imagine his expression – a mask of polite blandness forming over his true feelings. "Grapes. Yes. Yes, of course. These are lovely, Molly. Really. Thank you."

"It's not much. Just some seedless ones from Tesco. But if you need anything …at all."

"That's sweet of you, Molly. Thank you. I'm touched. You go on, now. Don't keep your friends waiting. I understand. Have a wonderful time."

"Alright then. Good night, Dr Watson."

And then she comes around the corner just as I get to the top of the landing. She takes another step then stops short when she sees me. Her hair is all piled up, and her face is framed with little stylish wisps here and there. Pins that sparkle keep it all together. Her dress is short and black and tight in all the right places and she has patent leather shoes to match. Her wrap slips off one shoulder and reveals white skin. I blink. She is taller in high heels; her legs longer.

"Inspector." She acknowledges me as she pulls the wrap around her to cover up what is bare. She blushes, lowers her eyes and shrinks aside and around me as she passes. The high heels and the close fitting skirt force her body into a gentle swaying motion that I cannot look away from. She holds her wrap in place with one hand and uses the other to hold the banister as she goes down the stairs.

I am entranced; I stand and watch, then when she is half-way down, I have a momentary lapse of self-control and utter under my breath, "Wow."

I don't think it's loud enough to be heard but the stairway has unforgiving acoustics and women have a special kind of hearing when they are being noticed. Molly stops in mid step. She does not move and I realize she heard me. I can't see her face and it occurs to me that I have been rude enough to warrant an apology. Before I can put one together that makes any sense, her shoulders shrug up like she might be pleased and she makes a quiet little sound – the single first sweet note of a giggle, then she then carries on. She ends with a bit of a bouncy step at the door before she leaves without a backward glance.

It occurs to me I don't entirely understand what just happened. I give myself a moment to recover then continue on into the apartment and stand at the door way and wait to be noticed.

"Oh. Hello." John is genuinely pleased to see me. "I didn't hear you come up."

"What the hell was that?"

"Didn't you see Molly? She just left -" He is holding the Tesco bag and is on the way to the kitchen.

"You didn't like grapes when I gave them to you."

"Never mind, you. It was sweet of her to make the effort …" He motions for me to close the door behind me and waves for me to make myself at home. "You off duty? Can I get you a beer?"

"Yes I am. And yes you can." I heave down into a seat and look around. The furniture is all the same but the apartment is neater and there is a vague smell of new paint. There is an organizational order that has crept into the place. The only exception is the slew of newspapers that are still piled up on the table and litter the couch. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Or maybe the interest has always been genuine. Then I see it – hanging there on the back of the door – Sherlock's great coat, brushed and buttoned up and the scarf looped and tied at the neck just as he used to wear it. It has become ornamentation for the room – an artifact – a modest shrine of sorts to the greatest mind I will ever have the privilege to know.

I hear caps come off bottles and then pouring. Bliss. This day is finally over. I stretch my legs out and the knot in the back of my shoulder beings to ease. There is a light breeze that blows in from an open window. The air is cool and fresh and the background sounds from the street echo and float up like counterpoint jazz.

He returns and hands me one of two glasses then he sits on the couch opposite me. He lifts the beer in a toast. "Cheers."

"Cheers." I toast him back and take a long drink. It tastes like the washing away of a bad day. I exhale and try to get rid of all the air in my lungs. It is a long, lovely moment.

"So ..." He shifts to one side and crosses his legs, then stretches an arm out along the back of the sofa. He settles in, more relaxed than I've seen him in months. "I hear you are looking for a cat, then. How's that coming along?"

At the mention of cats, the worst part of my bad day resurfaces like the surge of sewer backwash. I shut my eyes and put my head back on the chair. It is not the least bit funny.

"Sod off."

All I hear is a short snicker, then an apology. "I'm sorry."

"No. You're not. How long have you been waiting to say that?" I open my eyes again to take another drink to push the bile back down.

"Oh …" He motions to the papers in a semi-circle around him. "Since about ten o'clock this morning. Not one paper has missed it. They are of full of your latest lines of enquiry. They seem well taken with your cat hair theory. It is unanimous that this cat promises to break this case wide open. What did you do, for God's sake? Have a press conference and disclose every insensible aspect of the case?"

"You know what they're like. If you don't give them details they report based on what's said on twitter posts and facebook speculation and if that's not good enough, they just bloody make it up. That cat hair business? Came from a junior officer that doesn't know that reporters who buy him pints at his local are after something."

"I am sorry. Truly."

We share a silence that seems to heal a bit of the sting. I drink some more beer and on my empty stomach, I get a buzz without much effort. The quiet wears on and we make some peace.

"I know what it's like." He says. "Some days all you can hope for is to weather the onslaught and get out with your boots on … live see another day." He says it as a statement as a way of reminding us of our shared affinity.

"Yeah." I agree. While his experiences are different from mine in almost every way, I know that we fundamentally share a common life. We have both worked hard at our professions. We have risen in rank and been tested under extreme conditions. We have earned our success, of course but this now – the dark side that sets off success in relief - we share that, too. It is one of defeat in the face of hard, honest effort. An outward appearance of failure does not tell the story of heroism under siege. John – more than anyone I know – understands the difficult day I have had.

"What happened?" His interest is genuine and I go into detail. With media's recent phone hacking scandal, reporters are aggressive; rabidly pursing every lead to the point of hysteria. Breaking stories and two inch banner headlines are all that matters. Press lack scruples and are unencumbered by laws and ethics in the same way John and I are. Officers are being targeted and cultivated as friends – especially the younger ones who don't have enough experience yet to navigate such complex relationships. Unofficial comments made and overheard become a lead. Leads become leaks. Leaks become headlines; headlines become shit storms. This one is a typhoon.

"If I have anything to do with it, he'll go on suspension until he bloody retires." I wind up the story with my personal opinion of the officer who has ruined my day, complicated my investigation and made me look foolish to the nation. My only solace is that he now has a more precise understanding of the phrase "keep your fat gob shut".

"We were young once."

"That is no excuse. We always knew the difference between right and sodding bloody idiot."

There is another pause. "Feel better?"

"Another beer and I might."

We have generous refills and I am still dwelling on recent history and this case that has more limbs than an armful of monkeys. I came wanting to be distracted but I feel the day's events well inside me and know I need to get it all out of my system. There's some generic preamble, then I get into the heart of it.

"What I don't understand about the case is this …" I take the photos out and lay the first picture on the table so he can view it.

He leans forward and is interested until he studies the first crime scene picture and understands what he's looking at. Then he sits back and does not look at the second.

"Ah."

"What?" I stop before dealing and hold the third picture in mid-air.

"Hmm …" He buries himself in his glass.

"What? John. I am serious. I need some help."

"I … I know you do." He stares at me. "Bloody hell."

"What?"

He shifts and takes another swallow and then crosses his legs the other way. "Why."

"Why?" I frown. "Why not? You're a doctor. Know your way around the human body and the human condition. Not to mention that you've been second banana to the greatest consulting detective …"

"Hmm. A very distant second."

"Don't argue semantics. You know what I mean. You've been with him for three years while he did his thing. Don't tell me you haven't picked up something from him. A trick or two. Something. Anything. Listen, John. I'm asking you as a friend. I need someone else to look at these photographs. I can't see them properly any more. The heat is coming at me from all sides. Up. Down. Sideways. Not to mention that I am getting killed in the press."

"It's a lovely pitch, really. And I am flattered."

"What the hell is going on with you? Is this part of your therapy? Give it all a wide berth?"

"No. No. Nothing like that." He took a deep breath. "I was … erhm … warned … not to help you."

"Me?"

He nods. "You in particular."

"By who?"

"Mycroft Holmes."

I blank.

Mycroft Holmes dresses on Saville Row but will introduce himself as a meagre low level bureaucrat. He is self-effacing, humble and as dangerous as a king's assassin. I have known people who have chosen to ignore his direction. Consequences for disobedience can be swift or slow; speed is irrelevant – it is inevitable – and it is unforgiving and harsh. Careers can be destroyed; lives forever altered – and in more than one case - lost. I have had the chance to work with him a time or two. It is a good policy to give him precisely what he wants exactly as he has demanded it. Trifling is inadvisable. There is no one – and I mean no one – that makes my superiors more anxious to please. Even the Head of Scotland Yard – the Commissioner himself - has called me personally to make sure Mycroft Holmes has been fully and completely accommodated. Money, time, resources are never an issue. What is clear is that Mycroft is connected at the very core command of our nation's security. There is no word more final than his; no advice of his ever less than a direct order. And here he is mucking about with John.

"When? Why? What did he say?"

"While I was in hospital. Damned if I know. He said he was passing on friendly advice. It sounded like a threat."

"Well …" I say. "That changes things." I lean forward and retrieve the second photograph.

"I'm not the law. I'm not even particularly clever. Why would he care?"

"Don't sell yourself short, John. As for why would Mycroft care? Well … there's about three year's worth of working on cases with Sherlock. God knows what you've been exposed to … and you might not even know it. Or maybe it's … connected to something else completely?" I pick up the last photograph.

He ponders my suggestion. A creased brow turns into a frown, then a glower. Slowly he takes his arm off the couch and leans forward. He waves at me to proceed. "Go on, then."

"No. I can't."

"A minute ago, you couldn't wait to have me comment and now that's all changed? Why? Mycroft doesn't scare me."

"He should."

"Well, he doesn't." John frowns and his voice toughens. "Sod him. Now show me what you've got."

I argue with him and we go around and around and I give him fair warning but I have been eaten alive by my superiors and the press. This does not promise to subside any time soon. I am desperate enough to quit arguing with John in favour of help. I deal him the photographs in front of him taking care to orient them so they are right side up for him and list their names as I go. The photographs are crime scenes of each victim. "First. Maureen O'Brien – wife of the self-help guru Kevin O'Brien. Then Richard Greyson – horse breeder. Teresa Ellison - opera singer. Arthur Moore – financier. The only thing they have in common is …"

"Cat hair?"

"That is no help. The only thing we can tell is a certain … sense of perversion … to their death. But even that … you could make an argument either way. Take a look. Do you see anything that connects them?"

We spend another two beers each discussing it. What they had in common – virtually nothing. How they died – two hangings, a shooting and a poisoning. Where they were found. The state of the bodies … we go through everything that my team and I have gone through eight ways to Sunday. Colours. Compass points. Body positions. Time of day. Day of week. Personal histories. Anything that occurs to us. But there's nothing that all of them have in common. There's hardly any duplication. To give him his full due, John does try his best. He wants to help me but right now that's not enough. I don't need slow and methodical and plodding because I already have that at the Yard. What I need is brilliance – flights of fancy – cymbals crashing, angels soaring and the bloody Alleluia Chorus. I need a mind that can see inside the matrix and tell me what the blazes is going on. Any accompanying insults would be the smallest irritant.

"The crimes …" John says finally. "They are perverse. I mean … They are remarkable. And we think they are connected. But that connection … it's as if it is almost deliberately obscured. As if getting the connection is almost the point. Or maybe there is deliberately no point. Maybe it's the wrong path entirely. I dunno."

It all gets circular and derivative after that and we both know there's not much more we can squeeze out so we shift the conversation away to other things and then we take another hour or so to wind down the night and I stand to leave. He follows me and I put my hands in my pockets and my right knuckles hit something solid. I am reminded that I have had this with me all along. When I arrived, I thought it just wiser to do this at the end of the visit as opposed to the beginning.

"Oh. One more thing. This is yours." I shake out my hand from my coat pocket and I hand over his service revolver. From the other pocket, I withdraw the clip and pass it on.

"Oh. Ta." He says with almost absent-minded mildness.

He takes both and almost without thinking turns to the side so the gun points away from me and fits the clip in place with a slam of the handle into the palm of his hand. Then he runs his Sig through its paces with drilled precision that fills the room with a series of deadly metallic cracks and spring-loaded snaps. He ejects the clip again and to verifies that the clip is full. He snaps back the barrel, dismantles it and checks the recoil integrity. Another sharp click and it's in back in place. He lifts the gun, marks a point in middle distance and lines up the shot: he fires bulletless but I know a real bullet would have hit dead centre. He cocks the hammer again and hits the side release without firing. Then he slaps the clip back into place and sets the safety on and off and on. The whole sequence takes less than a minute. When he's done, he nods to himself as if he is satisfied.

Then he looks my way and catches my expression.

He gives me a weak smile and points to the gun as he palms it. "I'll … I'll just put this away, shall I?"

"Yeah. You do that."

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	10. Chapter 10 Sherlock Holmes

Chapter Ten - Sherlock Holmes – mental notes 

My life is has become transparent.

I am embedded in the immortality of the internet; my work and my cases are recorded by me, John, the press and the thousands of followers who comment, speculate and debate. People know my friends and my relations. They know the real names and the real places of where they live and what they do and how they live their lives. All that is between their peaceful lives and chaos is nothing more than a single decision to act. All the information is there to use. All you need is focus and all you have to do is watch. As my reputation grows, so does the permanency of the risk to those very few who matter to me. If I return to the living, the cycle will begin anew and John will once again be the conduit to me. It has become my singular occupation to resolve this. Until I do, my resurrection will have to wait.

I begin with this; Moriarty is dead.

He stood a foot from me, put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. His brain exploded out the back of his scull less than a second later. Of course he is dead. How could he not be dead?

In his wake, Moriarty left behind a cadre of those who would be crowned the next king of the underworld. Chaos has ensued as they all compete for the spoils of a master. For the most part, these pretenders are unremarkable and wholly unworthy of the title. In strict compliance with the laws of nature, stupidity tends to eliminate itself; you can't rule if you get caught. Several have exited this stage via the Old Bailey.

One of them, however, has demonstrated sufficient talent and insight to be worthy – if not of the outright title – then of the title heir apparent. He has a sensibility; a talent for crime; a deft creativity and aspires to something beyond the mundane. This man has the most dangerous of criminal qualities – the capacity to see a world as it might be; he has imagination. It may be something he picked up in his association with Moriarty himself – he demonstrates a healthy respect for my abilities. My reputation precedes me or perhaps defines me in this churning instability. This pretender harbours a suspicion – or it could be an anticipation – that I might still be alive – my very public suicide notwithstanding. These murders – they are his way of testing that theory – of flushing me out.

Phillip Styles is looking for me.

It could be that he is wanting to make certain that I am dead so that he may confidently proceed with impunity. Yet this is a man of imagination. He would not go to such lengths simply to prove my demise. No. This effort is a sign of hope; that I live yet and will respond to his perverse message. The question remains what exactly does the heir apparent of the Underworld want with me? He could be looking to understand the strength of resistance if he were to rise to power. He might be searching for a suitable partner in crime. I do not flatter myself when I say that all that separates me and such a role is a convoluted sense of ethics and my utter lack of interest in the spoils of crime. It occurs to me that my filial connection to Mycroft could be another reason. Mycroft's influences are well known in some circles. It is possible Phillip Styles has the illusion that he can use me to gain access to Mycroft Holmes and all that he controls. It would be a mistake, of course. If asked to choose between the Empire and his only brother, I am not even a fleeting consideration. He has already burned me once; it is why I now live as a dead man.

If Phillip Styles has had access to the internet – what denizen of the civilized twenty first century does not – he understands me. He understands my environment, my circles and who is important to me. If he knew Moriarty and was there for Reichenbach, he knows my only true weakness; the one thing that will cut through my intellect and grand capacity for logic and deduction and make me kneel. There is a singular way to break my will and force me to submit to the command of another. My fair, few friends have meaning, great profound meaning, to me. For that reason, I must remain dead. I will not put John in harm's way a second time; as long as I am dead, John is safe.

Mycroft can – and has - read the clues as easily as I and understands what has happened as I do. Yet Mycroft – for all his power and influence – will not help. He knows if he interferes once; he will be destined to forever do so and he is unwilling to waste his time – as he says – on such a trivial matter in the grand scheme of things. With my web presence, the press and publicity, John's blog with more than its fair share of honorifics … I am a celebrity and it comes with a high price, so he says. Mycroft calls my catch 22 dilemma my well-deserved hubris. I have shown I will go to almost any length to protect my friends. Criminals of any worth will always target John if they want my attention. I must find a way to return to the world and have my friends be a part of it.

Mycroft – even if he would help - is burdened and constrained by his official channels – top secret though they may be. There is no one I can use as a conduit to approach Lestrade with information about the case without arousing suspicions. Even the slightest hint and even he would know enough to ask some of the right questions. My death would be discovered a fraud; John would be at risk and round and round we go. Without Mycroft's help, I bear the full weight of complete understanding and am yet utterly impotent.

It is under this set of circumstances that I have been forced to forfeit all my involvement and unwillingly relinquish the resolution of this case to the detective capabilities of New Scotland Yard. It is they who must solve this case and find Phillip Styles guilty of murder while I languish silent and inactive in the grave. It is the only way to keep John safe until I figure out how to proceed. My necessary reliance on the police to do their jobs is a complete misplacement of trust and faith. I might as well believe in faeries and leprechauns.

I stand in a borrowed dressing gown, hands on my hips with the morning papers freshly strewn across the floor in front of me. I sent them there in a fit of pique. The level of investigative detection and crime reporting in this city is an abomination. Even for their respective institutional ineptness both have hit new lower limits that I had until now thought impossible to achieve. If ever there was a need for my resurrection, now is the time. Prevailing wisdom attests that the penultimate clue resides with cat hair. Cat hair? It is an outrage.

The few relevant details contained in the strewn papers have long since been committed to memory even as they occurred. The press is as wholly incapable as the police. The gap in the rogues gallery of corpses is obvious – it screams out for attention – but to a man, they are blinded and unable to see that which is right in front of them. They are missing a body; Olivia Thomas – a university professor from Devon has not been associated with this crime string yet she is its crowning glory. Two of the pictures are in the wrong order and have been published in the order of discovery, not in actual time of death. This order would lead them to the obvious common thread; the order in which they were murdered. Maureen, Richard, Arty, Teresa and Olivia known as Liv to her close friends.

Mo Ri Ar Te 'Liv.

Moriarty Lives.

Indeed.

It is sloppy, utterly untrue but provocative and effective in seizing my particular attention. It is a message for me and for me alone. I am taunted and unable to retaliate.

"Sherlock." My brother enters with that exacting put-upon elegance that is so specifically annoying this early in the morning. He tries to cross the floor and stops because there is a sea of newsprint between us. He makes one attempt to pick his way along then abandons it to address me from halfway across the room.

"This is preposterous. These are antique Persian rugs. Worth a small fortune. For the love of God, man. I won't have you ruining them with newspaper ink. When are you leaving? And do shave off that ridiculous beard."

"Give me alternate accommodations and I will depart today."

"You know I cannot do that. You are dead, remember? Even I cannot arrange such a thing and not arouse suspicion."

"Then I can't leave. And don't ask me to shave. I have an alias to maintain if I am to make alternate housing arrangements."

He points to the mess at his feet. "Pick this up."

I consider saying no but it will lead to complicating unpleasantness, a loud argument and then stalemate. I am loathe to admit it but at the moment I am entirely dependent upon him. I have been thrown out of my current quarters for a difference of opinion that – in my disguise as an immigrant janitor – I cannot resolve. This economy is not kind to those who make minimum wage in the unstable grey labour market. My employer has lost two important contracts and consequently I have become laid off. Mycroft is my temporary refuge; for shelter and funds. It prompts an uncharacteristic and unwilling level of cooperation on my part.

I swoop down and scoop up the mess in my arms then dump the mass on the breakfast table.

"Satisfied?"

"You are infantile. Utterly infantile."

I ignore him and sink into a wing backed chair, stretch out my legs and set my feet on the ottoman. I stare at my toes and pivot my feet back and forth on the heels to stimulate my thinking process.

"Cats. They are after cats. It is beyond the pale."

"This is your own doing."

"It is unconscionable."

"I need not remind you have no other option but to let nature take its course. I am not without compassion for you, however. To prevent any needless exposure, I have warned Dr Watson to stay away from involving himself in any police activities. The last thing you need is for him to rouse the hornet's nest."

At the mention of his name, I stop twitching my feet. Mycroft's interference has taken an immense toll on John including a protracted hospital stay in hospital and weeks of convalescence to recover. He is now under the doting care of Mrs Hudson who treats him with bacon and eggs and fat pots of tea. I know that it was my suicide that has caused this downward cascade but now that it is done, I will see to it that nothing further happens to him. His intentions may be noble but I will not have my brother interfering with John Watson again.

"You did what?"

"You heard me." He wanders over to the breakfast table and digs in for his cup and saucer. "I suggested to him that police work was best left to the police."

"I assume he paid you no attention. He could not have agreed."

"I did not give him the chance to agree or disagree. I simply put it to him."

"John Watson is not as uncomplicated or as pliable as you might imagine," I scowl. "He blames you for my death. He will not listen to you. Besides, haven't you done enough for him already?"

"Do not play holier than thou with me. I believe you started it. After your overly theatric suicide he became utterly lost; a walking corpse. Something needed to be done to snap him out of his fugue state. Giving him your effects was a way to restore his right mind; it forced him to process your death. Besides, you and I both understand what has happened since. You cannot risk him wandering around lost, sick and in a compromised state. Or worse, taking an interest in things that do not concern him. Regardless of whether or not he knows it, he needs his wits about him should you rise from the dead."

"You were cruel." I say. "Even for you."

"It was you who suggested that his safety would be compromised if what you and I believe is true." He is poised to have a sip of tea, glances at the clock and takes a long final gulp. "But as engaging and ever stimulating is conversation with you, I do have an appointment at 10 Downing in an hour and must take my leave. When I get back, I expect you to have restored this room to its previously ordered state and you to be shaved or at least looking substantively less derelict and homeless. If I am particularly blessed, you will also be gone. Your presence here compromises me. Should you be discovered …"

"Yes, yes. The future of the Empire depends on it. It always does. A veritable miracle that the nation lurches forward from one day to the next with so much hanging in the balance. It's all so tedious. You are not the only one who will be happy to have me depart the premises but as I said – I am between flats at present. I look homeless because I am homeless."

He leaves and a silence engulfs the room. I retreat to the peace and comfort of my internal dialogue. The idea that he has spoken to John eats at me. I know John as I know myself. Mycroft's warning will eventually wear off. We have worked together too long for him not to latch onto the headlines; he will take notice of this case. He will see it as "right up my alley". I know it is only a matter of time before something shifts and he gets drawn in or wanders in of his own accord. That's when the danger will start.

If I am to return, I need to find a way to render the criminals powerless. I need to find a way not to care if he lives or dies. It remains, however, that I do care. I will always care.

This, then, is the true Final Problem.

x-x-x-x-x-x

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	11. Chapter 11 Molly Hooper

Chapter Eleven - The Personal Diary of Molly Hooper

There's a lovely public cafeteria at St Barts. Wonderfully big and spacious with lots of seats for the lunch crush. Even so, I never eat at noon. Nor one o'clock either. There's still too much of a crowd. Of course, by the time I get there most of the sandwiches have been picked over and there's not much left of the salad but there's a lunch lady – Iris – who knows me and keeps an eye out for me from time to time. When the rush dies down, she sometimes has kept a little back just for me.

Today is a day like all the rest. I get a copy of the Daily Sun and a tray. I slide my way along, stopping at each post; first for peach yogurt, then a heap of salad that is mostly lettuce. I also get some pasta and red sauce with extra sprinkles of parm, a dinner bun for mop up and then ending things with a nice packet of crisps and a ginger ale. At the cashier, I hand over the exact change in coins. Before I leave, I make a final stop at the condiments bank. I get a cutlery set and a straw and pull out a few single-ply napkins from the metal dispenser.

This late in the day, there's space. Lots of empty tables and nooks are freed up. A quiet bite of lunch is possible. My favourite spot is taken by three women in surgical greens. They look settled in – maybe having a meeting - so I move on to an empty table along the side. As I walk down the aisle, I recognize faces but none enough to join anyone. Besides, I wouldn't be able to read my paper if I did. So really, it does work out.

At my seat, I get things a bit spread out and put the tray aside, then set up the paper so that I can read and eat at the same time. I start with the bowl of pasta and begin.

I hardly need to turn a page before there he is. Inspector Lestrade. He's holding a press conference. Another one. The picture was taken while he was in mid-sentence. He's leaning forward, making a point. His hair is combed forward into a peak of sorts and the creases of his brow are pulled in and down. He is not happy. I trace my finger along until I find the beginning of the article. I know what it's about before I start. It was a just another case until the cat hair details leaked. Then the media went a bit mental. I felt badly when I saw it. It gave me sort of a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach because I knew they would not be able to leave it alone. It was on every front page for two days running. I also knew the press would have a right go at him like wild animals on a carcass. And so they did. This is day four. The headline fonts are not getting any smaller but the words are getting meaner. They don't think much of him at the moment.

This article doesn't say anything new really but just sort of rearranges what has already been said with a different picture of him and a bit at the end asking for anyone with tips to call the hotline. A whole page for all that. Still … I return to the picture. It is unflattering; his face is worn – like he hasn't slept much - and his tie is off-kilter but there is intensity in both his eyes and in his posture and he looks like he could leap off the page and come alive. It is a remarkable image and so compelling that I can't look away. Even though the papers make him appear foolish, this looks like a man who is not defeated. There is lots of fight in him yet.

I wonder what it's like to have people just at you like that – taking pictures any which way and when, then publishing a partial story to go along with it. How can anyone manage it without becoming frozen with doubt and self-consciousness? How can you stand to even move for fear of making a mistake? Yet he seems immune. He just carries on as if they aren't there feeding on his every flaw. It is incredible. Somehow he even makes bad photographs look good.

I finish off the pasta and tear open the bun. I take a first swipe round the bottom of the bowl and sop up the left over sauce. As I take a bite, I pause from the paper and look up and around. There's a few less people. One or two last stragglers coming in for the last remains of lunch. And then, at the far entrance, I see him.

Inspector Lestrade ducks his shoulder through the door and steps in, then keeps walking in that steady, deliberate way he has. His hands are out of his pockets and his overcoat is unbuttoned. There is no hesitation; he knows where he is going. I look down at my paper as if that might keep me unnoticed and out of his sight. Then I look up and he is still approaching. I have a flash memory of the last time I heard his voice … it was a single word. I have held on to that and replayed it over and over in my head hundreds of times. It was so masculine; so understated. He was sincere and not at all crude … just … appreciative … like men are when they see something they like. And it was undeniably directed at me … of all people.

"Wow."

His voice floated down around me like a velvet cloak and he sounded like he was at a loss for something. Words maybe. Or air. One word from him and I felt prettier than I ever have in my life. It was utter bliss. That evening, I was brimming full of happiness at the idea that I might be worth noticing. I feel the tops of my cheeks start to warm thinking about it.

I look up once again. There is no question. He is headed straight for me. The blush heats up again and I pull closed the top of my sweater and realize I am wearing the light blue one with the threads gone on one cuff and a button missing at the top. I work in a morgue with dead bodies and toxic chemicals. Most days, no one sees me; there is no reason for me to dress up. Still … it would have been nice to … and then I see the Daily Sun … I wish I had a copy of the Times instead. Then I notice that I have a half eaten bun in my hand and my lunch fanned out before me, and that I have nowhere to hide.

All at once he is at my table, standing there solid and rooted like an oak tree. I look up. I feel my eyes go dry from not blinking enough.

He's not smiling but he doesn't do much of that. Instead, he puts a hand on the back of the chair that is opposite me and asks, "May I?"

The thought crosses my mind that he genuinely might be giving me a choice. I feel another wave of heat rise to my cheeks and nod and smile, and then smile and nod. As he sits, I move the pieces of my lunch back and forth until I accidentally tip over the yoghurt container. We reach for it at the same time and his hand closes over mine. His palm is warm and I notice the dense sinew that stretches over his knuckles like a boxer's. He lets go almost immediately. It makes my insides flip over.

"It's alright ... thanks… yes …" I am too late answering his question with words instead of head bobs; he is already seated. As he leans back, his coat sweeps open. He's wearing the same tie from the photograph only he has it on straight. Well. Less crooked.

"I'm sorry to bother you." He carries on, then shifts forward and clasps his hands on the table. It's not a casual move. What ever it is, he means business. Then, he cocks his head to the side and notices his picture in the newspaper. He doesn't react then lifts his gaze to me. He is still. Expressionless. I am so embarrassed.

"I … I … wasn't reading … it was … just …" I flip the paper closed and then fold it in half. I wish I could burn it. "I'm sorry … I didn't mean … You … " I hide the paper on the empty seat beside me.

"Doesn't bother me." He says without flinching.

I press my lips together not sure of what to say. I don't believe him.

He flicks his left hand and glances at his watch that he wears low over his wrist bone. He carries on and wipes his hand over his mouth and chin. He's thinking. Then he puts on a blank expression – that cagey Inspector look that the press always mistakes for stupid. "I want a favour."

"Anything." I mean it. Absolutely. Anything.

He is about to say and then his phone goes off. It's loud and in the mostly empty space, it echoes like a warning klaxon. People turn their heads and stare.

"Excuse me." He says and then answers. "Lestrade. Yes. Yes, sir." He looks down and I know he's talking to a superior officer. I wonder how far up the ranks it is. He doesn't normally call his immediate bosses "sir". "Of course. Yes. I've seen the article. No. Not in detail. Just … glanced over the article. So … no. Why?" He runs his thumb along a hairline crack in the table. "Yes, sir. I suppose it might be seen that way. I … I didn't … I can't … There's no …" He can't get a word in and then he gives up. He closes his mouth and just takes it. I can't hear the words but I can hear the tone; it is almost yelling. Then, all at once, there is silence on the other end and he starts it up again. "Yes, sir. I'll take that as direction." He disconnects the phone and looks at me again.

I wish I could do something for him. "Is … is there anything … I can do? To help?"

"Get me Sherlock Holmes."

I gasp. Was that the call? Does he know? How can he? It is so startling that I recoil. He can't possibly know … !

"I'm kidding."

"Oh. Yes." I feel the muscles of my face. They are more twitch than smile. "Of course. Right. Kidding …"

"I do need your help, though. I need you to walk through all the results with me. I just need to get it … clear … in my head."

I mean it's not like he doesn't have all the reports in his office by now. He knows the details by heart. There are association maps and whiteboards filled with pictures and arrows and key words and stacks and stacks of notes. Everyone in his entire office has been pouring over this case for weeks. What he's asking for now is a detailed forensic review; what's he's looking for is a break. Reports are fine but they don't talk back. He needs someone new to debate to spark new ideas. I am his fresh pair of eyes.

As we leave, he makes a detour to buy a large black coffee. I follow him out and when he reaches the door, he yanks the handle, stands aside and catches the closing glass panel with his hand up high and holds it open for me. He waits for me to go first. I duck under his arm and he falls into step beside me as I can lead us on to the lab.

Down in the morgue, he stands at my side and digs in his coat pocket then tosses his notebook on the counter. The black leather hits the surface with a slap. A moment later, he finds his pen. The coat comes off and he takes a seat on the stool beside me.

"We are going to go through it all. One at a time. Piece by piece. Nice and tidy like you always do. Tell me anything that occurs to you as we go…"

I start with the first file and just like he asks, we go through it one page at a time; the photographs, the autopsy results, the lab tests. He asks me how and why and when and what do I think. Every so often, when something suitably satisfies him, he annotates the notes in his book. After an hour and a half or so has passed, he leaves and returns with another coffee.

After a sip of a fresh cup, he sits back down and unbuttons his cuffs and rolls them back a single turn each side and then does second round. His forearms are lean and hard; when he picks up his pen and a cycle of clicking and unclicking, I can see the muscles flex. He moves to tapping the pen and it goes as fast as a snare drum. "Alright. Where were we?"

I push along an unopened package of Hobnobs. I am certain he has missed lunch because every now and then, his stomach grumbles.

"Here."

"I'm ok."

I don't argue but open the packet and shuffle the first cookie out the opening and leave them close by.

"Arthur Moore." I say and pull out the next file. We get this one in the right order despite the press repeatedly getting it wrong. "Financier. Cause of death two gunshot wounds. One entry point at the left frontal lobe just above the temporal line and one to the slight upper left quadrant of the torso."

"Head and heart." He says and reaches for a cookie and checks his notes. "No one else had a mafia hit. Odd."

I open my mouth to speak and then stop. He looks up at me because he has heard my intake of air.

"What?"

"It's … funny."

"What is?"

"Like you say. Odd. That's mafia … their signature."

"Yeah?" He rumples into the packet to get at another cookie. "So?"

"Well … do you remember exams?"

"Vaguely."

"Remember how they used to go? A little of everything? Like it's a sampler. Some of this. Some of that. … This … it's all very textbook-y … well in an A-levels in committing murder kind of way … "

He is staring at me and I can't tell what he is thinking. Then he takes another gulp of coffee.

"Hmm." He says, ignoring me and reviews his note book so slowly that the pages make a snapping noise when they finally turn. There isn't anything for a while then he comes back to me and I just carry on. I want to ask but don't dare.

We keep going until we get to the last one. Teresa Ellison the opera singer. It's late and the packet of Hobnobs is crumpled up and tossed aside along with three coffee cups. We take the same care with this file as with all the others. Then, without any further progress that I can tell, I reach the last page.

"I'm sorry … of course ..." I announce the final item, "Cat hair."

"Bloody cat hair."

"You know. It's funny …" I say as I start reassembling the file to put it away.

"More 'funny'?" He is on the stool with his heels tucked over the foot rungs and he swivels his hips to face me, legs open and his right hand turned inward and bracing his knee. The tan line that edged where his wedding ring used to be is gone. I blink and work my way back to what I was going to say.

"When someone says – 'don't look at the red'. It's funny. All you can see is … well … the red."

"Your point?"

I wander over to the far desk and return with another file that I hand over to him. "The papers keep talking about the cat hairs. I know this one doesn't fit. Nothing like the others. Not at all. Just a hit and run. A professor from Devon. But there's cat hair …"

He takes the file and turns his head to the side. He reads the tabbed label aloud. "Olivia Thomas." Then he opens his hand and lets the file fall open at a photograph of the accident scene. There's a mangled car in the centre and on the two pictured street corners, strips of store fronts. It's a busy intersection.

His whole body freezes but his eyes flick up and lock onto mine. He dives deep into silent thought but keeps staring at me as if I am his life line – a conduit to something I don't quite understand. I feel a flush come over me. I watch him churn over ideas and process the information in stages. It's moments, then a full minute. All of a sudden his whole demeanour changes; his shoulders drop, his chest expands, and the corner of his eyes crinkle up. Then he breaks out into a gleaming smile that takes all the air out of the room and I can hardly breathe.

"Nice one, Molly." He says.

I nearly burst with pride.

x

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	12. Chapter 12 Mrs Hudson

I didn't mean to stare. It's not polite. I know that.

All he was doing was clipping bits and pieces out of the piles of newspapers he has. But the way Dr Watson carried on … I couldn't help myself. He was so precise and careful. Took his time he did. Like he was performing surgery. I had come up to ask him if he wanted a cuppa. We had fallen into a bit of a habit of late – he and I – to have tea in the afternoon. He had turned into a bit of a homebody. There was not much to occupy him outside of 221B and he did make a point to stay close to home. I admit it was nice to have him around. He always seemed to know right when to pop down to my apartment to help out with a bit of heavy lifting and the odd nail going into the wall. He had a lovely quiet way of taking over and just getting on with things despite my protests. It put a right smile on his face to end my resistance with a "too late, already done". It was good to see him happy.

He'd also react to any sudden bump or bash in my apartments. Those? Well, the small ones would have him calling down with a concerned "Everything alright, Mrs Hudson?" He'd ask from the top of the stairs. Once or twice, if I had a right crack up and it was loud enough, he wouldn't bother to call out but he'd come down straight away and see for himself. He'd have a proper look round and put to right anything that was upset or turned over.

One night, there was a bit of a to-do out in the street. It was after dark. Just up the road but close enough that we both heard the commotion. He went outside to see what was what and ended up calling the police. He asked for my key and told me he wanted to check the store. When I asked whatever for, he said he wanted to make sure there was no break in. I've no clue where he got such an idea. I've never had a problem in this neighbourhood as long as I've been here. Any trouble was always purely a result of Sherlock. Besides … who wants to steal a few cheese sandwiches? Still … I gave him the key since he seemed so keen to help. I caught him coming down the stairs tucking the back of his shirt in an odd way and I'm almost certain he had his gun with him when he went. But really … it wasn't at all necessary, bless him.

"Right as rain." He said when he returned and seemed well satisfied with the effort and the result. I couldn't tell him I wasn't surprised, now could I?

I don't mind saying, though, it is lovely having a man in the house again. Gives you a sense that if things go wrong, there'd be an extra set of hands to help.

But about the clippings. I didn't take much notice at first. I mean – I tear out the odd coupon from the paper – don't I? Nice having those soup two for ones especially. And fifty p off shortbreads, too. The first time I saw Dr Watson do it, he was at his usual chair with papers open on his lap and others scattered here and there. It was a bit of a mess, really, with bits on the floor and papers dripping off his knee. But the way he cut! Oh heavens – you could have engineered a road on the sharpness of his corners and the straightness of his lines. He took his time and when he was done, did a bit of a toss-away with the waste and had another look at what he had done. If it wasn't perfect, he'd take off another sliver. His trimming was so lean and precise that the strips of paper would curl as they were sliced by the scissor blades.

The next time I saw him at it, he'd moved his centre of operations to the desk. By then, he'd been accumulating these bits and pieces – pictures and diagrams and columns with carefully underlined statements - for a couple of days. He had bought a proper pin board and had a map posted up with black push pins placed in various spots. It looked something like what Sherlock used to do only it was much neater and with far fewer pieces.

"Hello, dear." I say, popping my head round the door. He's at his clippings again. The pin board art has been added to with features from today's papers and headlines. There's even a picture of the Inspector looking a bit worse for wear. "Fancy a cuppa?"

He doesn't look away from his snipping. The scissors are shiny and the long blades glint in the light. Certainly they'd be my best pair if I had them. Unhurried, he cuts off a side. There's a bit of a breeze coming through the window and with his final snip, the paper floats before falling. I think to shut the windows but he's come quite particular about having them open since … well … since things have happened. He says he needs the air. He's careful now about rain, of course, and watching for when the heating on. But even when it's pitching down, he still has it open a crack. He says he needs it to breathe. On nicer days, he has them wide open and if it's cool out, I know enough to come up with a sweater on. He seems to live in his sweaters too – the white aran or the green army with the rifle patch at the shoulder. Those sweaters – the thick wool knitting - it makes me think he's all wrapped up in a blanket as if it's a comfort to him.

"That would be lovely." He says without a drop his concentration.

When I come back with the tray, I've added a plate of biscuits. I set it out on the corner of the desk. Tea and a nibble inspire him to take a break. He sets the scissors and papers aside and reaches for a biscuit right away. He's easily distracted when I bring shortbreads along.

"Oh, ta."

Once I'm settled in, I can't help myself and ask. "What on earth are you doing with all these clippings? Making a scrapbook?"

"Oh. Greg and I were talking about one of his cases."

"The Inspector? The one where's he's looking for a mysterious cat?"

He winces just a bit and I have the feeling I might have said something wrong. "Yes. That's the one. I'm taking what the papers have and doing a bit of thinking on my own. Nothing much. Just to pass the time."

"Of course. Like me doing the daily word search."

"Sure. Just like your daily word search." He sips his tea with some concentration. "Do you have any idea how many cats there are in London?"

"Ooo. A fair many, I'd say."

"About eight hundred thousand."

"Well that is a fair many, isn't it?"

"They're never going to find that one cat among all those. Never in a million years."

"Mmm. Have they made any progress, then?"

"Well … There's been so much coverage. Almost every angle touched on. So that's helpful, I suppose. It gives me a lot of information to sift through though some of it gets a bit repetitive."

He trails off and I get the sense that this exercise – that he started with such enthusiasm – is now becoming a bit overwhelming for him. Sherlock always seemed to me to be much further along by this point. I mean, he'd be out the door with a shout and a don't wait up even when he just a hint of an idea. Sherlock seemed to hop and skip along quickly. Dr Watson seems to have lots of trimmed up pieces and not much in the way of connections. But what do I know? I'm just his landlady. I don't bother much with the science of detection.

"It's harder than it looks." He admits. "There's just so much … information. I never could figure out how he did it. It was like he had a massive processor in his head that could churn through permutations and combinations … I'm just … bah … me. It's silly to try." He shakes his head. He drops his chin a little and there's a veil of sadness that comes over him that I've seen before. It's not good when that happens; he gets low and silent and everything turns inward, then it's my time to proper worry about him again.

"Let's see what you've got, then." I say to cheer him up. I set my teacup down and stand beside him at the desk. I give him a nudge at his shoulder. "Go on. You show me."

"Well." He sits back and stacks the newspapers to the pile on the right and starts to arrange the newsprint photographs like he was dealing out solitaire. He places them out for me one after another with a little story about each one. Maureen. Richard. Teresa. Arthur. He sits back and we both study the portrait gallery he's put out. Nothing occurs to either of us and the silence wears on. He sighs. Over the quiet, there is a gust that comes in and the curtains billow outwards. The wind picks up the newsprint and then they blow to the side and land on a couple other open newspapers. I slap my hands down to catch them before they go too far and then start coax them all to the one side.

All at once, he grabs my arms and forces me to stop.

"Wait." He orders. "No. Mrs Hudson!" He reaches forward and grabs my wrists and holds them firmly so I cannot move or further arrange his pictures. He picks them up in the new order and then grabs a picture that was face up in one of the open newspapers.

"What is it, dear? Are you alright?"

"Mrs Hudson! You're a genius!"

"Of course, dear. Anything you say. Now let's put all this away before it gets scattered in the breeze again."

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen – John Watson

Mrs Hudson is a genius; she is serendipity masquerading as my landlady. Whether or not she understood, she was able to arrange all the photographs just so. Each name was partially obscured by the next one on top – perfectly parsed so I could read the message as it was intended. She even knew how to add a final portrait accidentally but it completed the puzzle.

Mau. Ri. Ar. Te. Livs.

Moriarty lives! Moriarty lives? Nonsense. Moriarty does not live.

Moriarty is as dead as Sherlock Holmes.

Still … I know … I absolutely know … that this has not been an accidental arrangement of dead bodies. It has been deliberate and methodical and is part of something planned out far beyond what I could possibly imagine. Someone is sending a message. But to whom? And why? That I have come to this point is thrilling. All at once, I understood a little of what might have driven Sherlock to be as he was. That I have cracked this bit fills me with an overwhelming euphoria. I feel as if I have taken flight – I am brilliant – stunning – more clever than I have ever been in my life. I sail around the room on the energy of it and wish he could be here to witness it – me – so he could have seen that even just this once, it was possible that even I could lurch my way along and get to the answer. THE answer!

Sherlock used to be so particularly clever once a case got to this point. Not that he lacked in skill at any other point along the way but once something broke, he'd leap to all sorts of ideas that had been churning in the background and it just all seemed to fall into place. We'd be well out the door by now, taxies hailed, addresses given, plans and plots well underway between us. Now all I can muster is a quiet sip of tea and a very deep but unproductive think. As dusk settles to night, I am still at it. All I can assemble is five somewhat connected thoughts.

First. The chances of this cryptic crossword being a purely random series of events is almost non-existent. I've been around Sherlock long enough that things like this don't work out accidentally. They just don't. What ever this is, it's deliberate. I know I have this much right. Second. Moriarty is actually dead so this message is … what? Ironic? Rife with subtext? A bluff? Third. Someone in Moriarty's circle has done this. I suppose it could have been done by an outsider of some kind but I doubt it. Moriarty is mentioned by name. There's a claim he's alive. Who else but an insider would say so? Or care? Or want the idea out there? There's no one else who would find this the least bit relevant. Forth and fifth. Who did it and why? I am stumped. I have absolutely no idea. None whatsoever.

I consider calling Greg with my breakthrough since I am at once so proud of it and also so lost regarding what it might mean. I get as far as pulling up his number on my phone. As I am about to dial, I think better of it. What if I'm wrong? What if this is ridiculous? What if there is some completely obvious explanation that I have missed? Sherlock used to tell me that being utterly wrong on all fronts was one of my best features. Comprehensively incorrect was the exact term he used. Maybe I shouldn't call Greg quite yet. It occurs to me that it would be better if I had a bit more of an idea before I give him some wild story about messages being sent via the parsed names of murder victims. When I say it like that – I know its sounds completely daft. And if the utter improbability of the idea weren't enough, I know my mental state has not been the best of late. I can't pretend away a nervous breakdown and a prolonged visit to a psych ward. He doesn't hold it against me but I know it would become a factor if I started spouting my theories with nothing to back it up. Calling Lestrade at this point might not be the cleverest thing for me to do under the circumstances. It is – I decide - premature. I absolutely need more information.

While the first part of this has been a painstaking process of using press clippings to get anywhere – and I have had that rare commodity of ample time to sort it out – this next step is a good deal easier. I know just where I can get more intelligence on Moriarty's various associations. Sherlock has always kept meticulous files of all his cases. He's also an obsessive collector of details of people and events that connect directly or by degrees to Moriarty's extensive web of crime. We made arrangements long ago for such a contingency by ensuring my access to his files should the occasion arise.

I go to the desk drawer that has not been opened since I was looking for his scarf. I reach in and remove Sherlock's laptop. I open it up and nothing happens. The battery is dead so I go for a search for the plug. After a few minutes, I have the screen up and the computer connected. It takes me a few false starts to find the right link. I click and then a blank screen comes up and requests a password.

Before I type anything, the argument we had had on the issue flashes through my mind.

"We need something simple." He was sitting at his computer and drumming his fingers softly on the keys – lightly enough that there were no keystrokes, hard enough that he sounded impatient. "Something simple that even you won't forget."

"I won't forget." I said.

"So you say."

"Look, Sherlock. I'm not an idiot." The scowl he gave me showed he did not ascribe to that belief. At all.

"I don't want you to write it down. If you write it down, you will have to hide it somewhere and that place will no doubt be so obvious that even the dullest of minds will find it in no time and thus ruin the whole point of having a password in the first place."

"I never said I would write it down."

"Not in so many words, no. But you are likely to since it will be a password that you will not use for a great while and then suddenly find the need to use … probably for some urgent matter. You will have had no chance to commit it to memory through repetition and then the stress of needing to recall it will blank it permanently from your mind. Of course you are going to write it down."

I sigh and type in the password that I never recorded.

_r3m3mb3r_m3_

The screen flickers then goes blank. A frame pops up and an instant later with no warning whatsoever, Sherlock appears.

"Hello, John."

His voice is clear and sharp and he so alive that it terrifies me. Instantly, I slap down the laptop and shove it away from me as if it were a live grenade. Everything shuts off. Including me. It's a reflex. Hard-wired. Self defence. It takes me a moment to even breathe. I feel like I've been hit square in the solar plexus and double over. I didn't expect that.

Jesus.

When I try to lift the screen to start over, my hands are trembling and too uncoordinated to work. I get up and pace around the room for a while to burn off the adrenalin. As the nervous energy wears off, I slump in my chair and stare across the room and know that if I want to get to the database, I have to face him. I have to face him one last time and hear what he has to say. I have spent months trying to bury him and here I am having to resurrect him one last time. I never expected to hear him talk to me again. Ever. And not like this. I don't know if I can bear it. It is agony knowing that he will be alive once more but only for those few moments of the video and, when it's over, he will die again and evaporate into the ephemera of pixels and electrons and nothingness. Melancholy washes over me. It lingers and turns into a terrible lonely sadness that sours the pit of my stomach. Jesus. I miss him. The last images of him return and in my mind's eye I see him spread out his arms and fall forward. I sit in stillness and let the memories ebb and flow once more. After the worst of them recede, I get up and go back to the computer. The shakes have subsided. I'm still not prepared but at least I know what to expect.

I type in the password again. The frame comes up. Then Sherlock …

"Hello, John. If you're watching this, I'm most likely dead or compromised in some catastrophic way." He reacts to the words with surprise as if he can't imagine it. "I wonder what happened. Still. Here you are opening my secret portal. See? I told you it was the perfect password. And I know you never wrote it down, either, because I did check. In any event – you have decided you need access to these files. I can only imagine that you think there's information here that will be of use to you. Given these files contain my detailed work on the notables of the underworld and salient criminal activities of London, you are involved in something complicated and dangerous or are about to be. I do hope you have given this sufficient thought and know what you are doing. I'm certain you will still be incapable of seeing the obvious and that conceptual blindness will increase your danger a hundred fold. I do wish I could be there so we could pursue this together. You are … irreplaceable … to me but you will have to carry on without me. My only advice is to do be careful, John. Keep your wits about you. Call Lestrade if it comes to that." He stops and the makes a move as if he is about to end the video, then changes his mind and comes back to the camera. His face is serious. He pales and looks at the lens with intensity. His voice loses volume. He knows he is powerless but still attempts a demand anyway. "Don't do anything stupid." There's another long pause and the sarcasm fades. It its place flows a haunting humbleness. The word is breathy … begging. "Please?"

The screen goes blank and then a list of names spew and scroll down then slow and stop. I don't see any of the text because my eyes are blurry with unfallen tears.

o

I have to give full credit to Sherlock. The list he made is comprehensive and heavily annotated with maps, links, personal thoughts and pictures. He has been obsessive about it. I am loathe to think how he obtained some of this and probably best that I don't know. As part of his documentation, he has separated the names into tiers and after a little research online to check some of the details, I know I am after the Tier 1 names. There are eleven in total. I still don't have near enough yet to call Greg. I can't explain anything yet and I will sound like a raving lunatic until I do.

I write out the eleven names and then – one by one – Google them. Almost all of the names are easily searchable – mostly because they have committed crimes that have hit the papers and seen them arrested or sought or – ominously – given the title of "known to police". It surprises me how easy it is to eliminate six from circulation. Apparently not all of Moriarty's associates are as clever as he. They are a variety of incarcerated and one dead. That leaves me five to investigate further. With some extra searching, another is eliminated – Azerbaijan suggests a permanent relocation. Besides, it is just too far for me to travel. I review the remaining names and then I take a rest. I need to consider my approach. I mean … what am I going to do? Walk up to them and say "Oh, hi. Just cracked your cryptic message in those murders. Quick question … what's your idea exactly? No reason … just curious. Promise I won't tell a soul."

Jesus. Even I know that will get me killed.

Then I fall back to my military training and it occurs to me that this should be – after all – an intelligence gathering mission to research the forward position … view the enemy in his lair as it were. That is … at least view the lair. With any luck, I won't actually encounter any of these fine upstanding citizens of the realm and certainly not until I have the appropriate level of backup. A proper recce is in order. The idea appeals to me and I get right to it.

I take down the pin board and lay it flat and start plotting the locations. None of them stand out as being central to the murder locations though one is closer that the others … the one for a Phillip Styles. The name means nothing to me so I carry on with the others and plot those out as well. I gain a good sense of where I'm going, how to get there and what I'll encounter. My plan is simple – find the primary location, have a look around a four-block area and then get out. I pack my Sig because I am a very good shot and it unreasonably gives me a sense of security. That is … I feel less vulnerable.

Four of the trips are simple, straightforward and I return with virtually nothing to report except an understanding of terrain, access/egress and environment. As I circulate the area completely unnoticed, not a thing stands out. The next day, I set out for the last of the five trips and the only one that amounts to anything – Phillip Styles – the one closest to the series of murders.

It starts off simply enough. I find the shop easily and then walk past and create the four block grid. I take a few pictures to record the views since this area – unlike others – did not show any Google map street views. Odd since I thought that London has been well covered by now. Once done, I return to the shop … it's small … similar to Mrs Hudson's. I stand outside knowing I should not go in but it occurs to me if Sherlock were here, he would walk right in and even if I protested, I would follow without hesitation. A bit of trouble would keep the day interesting and remind us that we were alive. But I am alone and that makes me cautious. Still, the street is active and part of a busy roadway – and inside – I can see a couple of customers. There does not appear to be any imminent danger to me so I decide to go in. As I suspected, it is nothing more than a shop doing a day's worth of normal trade. It is anti-climatic. I take a once-round the store and then head for the exit.

Just as I hit the mat at the door, I am intercepted by a man with a shirt that shows off a barrel chest and biceps built at a gym.

"Hey. Ain't you John Watson?"

"I … well …" I pause and consider how to answer. I haven't written in my blog in a long time. But the internet is forever. My picture has been almost everywhere Sherlock's has. It's not surprising I've been recognized but it is not good that I have been recognized here. Not here. Not now.

"Yeah." A second man comes out of the shadows. He is in black leather – not at all as fit as the other but tanned with combed back hair. "That's him, alright. Look taller in your blog. You been quiet since your pal kicked off."

I debate whether or not he is deliberately trying to provoke me. There are two of them now and I get a hinky battlefield feeling that I should tread carefully and retreat. My hackles rise. I try to pass and am blocked again.

"Excuse me." I say.

"Yeah … about that …" Muscles says. "What you doing around these parts?"

"Sorry. I just got turned around a bit. I'm alright now." I take a step forward into his personal space, "I'll be off."

He doesn't back down. "We've got a message for you."

"A message? For me?"

"You get in contact with your Sherlock Holmes. Go tell him Phillip Styles wants to have a word."

"Sherlock Holmes is dead."

They turn to each other. Leather laughs a bit and turns to Muscles. "Well. Doesn't he know everything." Then he turns to me and repeats himself. "Like I say … you tell Sherlock Holmes that Phillip Styles has a business proposition for him."

Muscles stands aside and gives me free passage. As I go through the door, Leather adds on a final note.

"Tell him we know just what to do to guarantee his cooperation. It'll be impossible for him to refuse."

Outside the air is fresh. I check several times and realize that they have made no attempt to follow me. I settle down and repeat what Leather had said and smile to myself.

A proposition that Sherlock can't refuse?

I shrug it off and think to myself. Even if he were alive, I can't imagine anyone ever making Sherlock do anything he didn't want to …

x

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen – Greg Lestrade

Mickey Varella is a punk.

He's not much into his twenties with a style that makes him almost invisible unless you are looking for him in particular. Unfortunately for him, I have been. Looking for him in particular, that is. It wasn't all that difficult. I have resources; some of the best in policing. Besides, it's amazing how quickly things can develop with a solid lead, hot pizza for one of our best computer experts and the address listing on a prior arrest record.

I found Mickey coming out of his apartment. He was unshaven and with hair that was more uncombed than modern coif. The surprise on his face was priceless when I strode up to him and said his name. There was even a fleeting moment – a beat after he made sense of my outstretched badge - where he debated the idea of running away. I am always prepared to give pursuit but at the end of a long day, I don't argue if they come along quietly. To his credit, he listened to my advice and saved us both the effort of the theatrics. There really was nowhere for him to run.

Mickey Varella is on that side of the one way glass. I am on the other making a study of how he waits. He is sitting in Interview One hunched slightly forward and fiddling with his hands. He is trying hard to be still – putting on a front of tough innocence - but he can't quite manage it. The fingers keep entwining and parting like writhing worms. I have left him there – alone – deliberately. I want to give his imagination time to work on him; to fill it with possibilities and fear. It's not entirely by the book but the deviation is subtle, hardly worth mentioning. From my vantage point at the sill, I watch. And wait just a little bit longer.

The wait has become difficult for him; he's straining against the unknown. What were once slight nerves have now become involuntary tics. His body is full of shifting motion – as if he wants to get away from himself but can't. He pitches forward slightly, spreads his arms across the table top and shifts his whole torso so that his breastbone rests against the edge of the table. Then he makes a sweep with his hand from his ear across his cheek and open mouth that I recognize from the video surveillance. If there was ever any question that I might have the wrong person, this removes all doubt. I know I have it right. I'm satisfied with myself but am not rushed to proceed. Sometimes, it's nice to savour the victories.

Still passing time, I flip open the file I have with me. The front cover resists and I press a thumb in the crease to keep it open. I pick over the pages and start from back to front; one at a time. There's only a few. First, there's Mickey's criminal CV. It's longer than expected. His portfolio is diversified; the crimes are mostly small time with a few odd exceptions and – as a body of work – lacks focus. It has occurred to me, however, that while he is a small fish, he swims in a lot of ponds. He is a gateway to several universes that I want to know more about. It has ensured that I take care creating the next three pages that make up my interrogation plan. I have been meticulous, deliberate and concise. My stage management may not be up to Sherlock's high opera standards but I am largely constrained by ethics and rules of policing. Still, I am not without some measure of style. I have confidence that the care I have taken will be rewarded. Then I get to the very first page of the file and pick at the corner. It is my prize, my leverage, my wedge that will crack open this case. It is a single still photograph. I take my time and look at it once more. It was taken in the street lamp half-light of night. The resolution is remarkable. Our tech guys do brilliant work. Well worth the price of a hundred pizzas.

Molly's picture was the key; it was the break I was hoping for when I asked her to spend six hours of her day reviewing every last detail with me. It was painstaking; laborious. Yet when she hit upon it, she realized by my reaction that what she showed me was important. She was too polite to pry and I did nothing to help her understand. At the time, I was not entirely sure where the picture would lead me. But I could read the contents well and saw nothing but opportunity. It gave me a time and a place and – more importantly – a view of a long row of store fronts. One of them surely had a closed captioned camera that recorded all that came into its frame.

The accident intersection was a fifteen minute drive in light traffic. There – in a tiny sliver of a store – Mr Singh had the business acumen to install a camera that faced onto the street and placed the intersection in view. Even better, he had a long recording retention cycle so when I asked, he gave me everything I wanted. On file seven at hour four forty three Mickey appears. The accident has just happened. He checks over his shoulder both ways then approaches the car; he carries out some sort of business with the far front wheel well. It doesn't matter what he's doing; he leaves at a sprint without any concern for the dying Olivia Thomas.

I look at my watch and assess the time. I've stretched this delay in interrogation out enough. No reason to make either of us wait any longer. When I enter, I reintroduce myself and get started. Beginning with the preliminaries, I set up the interview recording. I outline the basics and get some of the easy questions out of the way. He doesn't resist much since the questions are obvious and both of us have enough experience with this to know lying at this early stage is a bad idea. Lies are things to be kept in reserve when the going gets tough and when there's some truth to hide them in.

Eventually, I arrive at my mission. I ask him where he was on the night in question.

"Around."

"Around where?"

"Worked late. Spent the night at a pub. Chelsea game was on. Had to see my boys play, didn't I?"

"Can anyone back up that story?"

"You saying I need an alibi?"

"You saying you don't have one?" It's my first return volley that's hard enough to land like a punch. It gets him uneasy. He shifts and bites the edge of his fingernail.

"I …"

"Which pub was it?"

He stammers a bit before he answers and I spend some time following that line of thought. Eventually, he gets mired in his own misdirection and I simply call him on it.

"Listen. We know you were at the accident at about eight thirty."

"I wasn't. I told you. I was at the Lion and Lamb. Ask anyone."

"I don't need to." I wait a beat and then say, "We have you on tape."

He sags noticeably. I slide the photograph across the table and he avoids looking at it.

"What were you doing there?"

He glances at the photo and then back to me and then back at the table. He opens his mouth as if he is going to deny it's him. I stare at him unblinking and unsmiling. My eyes burn a bit from not blinking but it's worth the effect. It gives him the idea that an argument will be futile if he tries it. He abandons his defence and sags some more.

"Nothing."

There's more between us and we go around again and again – me with questions and him with inert one word negatives that don't get us anywhere. Eventually, the stalemate leads up to me repeating the question one last time. I say it hard enough that it startles him. It sounds like I have lost patience. Maybe I have.

"What were you doing there?!" I pause and restore my voice of reason. "You tell me what you were doing there and you create options for yourself. I know you are smart enough to know you need an out at this point. I can put you at a murder scene. This picture … and all the video tape evidence that goes with it… you have no room for debate if I put you in front of a jury."

He bows his head and reveals that what he took out of the wheel well was a tracking device. That made sense if the accident were not an accident. They would need to know the car's location for a good interception. It also explains why he didn't make an effort to save her. He knew she was as good as dead. That was the point.

"Who is behind this?"

"You'll never guess."

"I don't intend on guessing. I intend on you telling me."

"Can't."

"I am going to find out one way or the other."

"It'll be hard work."

"If I can find you from a fuzzy picture pulled from CCT, don't you think I can make the connections back to whoever is behind this? Might as well cooperate. You've come this far. Seems to me your options are us or them. Frankly, I'd put money on us being able to give you the better deal. You'll live longer, I suspect."

That's enough for him. He takes a deep breath.

"Glen Giamatta."

It's his connection that that I was looking for all along; I have no further questions but let it wind down naturally. Finally, I wrap up the interview and let him go. I will be able to get him again if I need him; he owes me and knows it. In this interview, he has given me exactly what I want. A name. The name. On hearing it, I have the vague sense of familiarity. It makes my mouth water. Giametta is somebody. I have heard it before.

Once it's all over, I head straight back to my desk. Giamatta. It's an itch in my brain and then I have a flicker of recognition. That name. I know I know it but need my computer. Anderson interprets my walk as one of purpose and intercepts me with a "where's the fire?". She wants a response but I don't give her one and side step her with curtness. Giamatta. Giamatta. I slide into my chair and at the same time hit the spacebar to wake up the hard drive. The screen comes to life and as I key in his name, I start to form an image in my mind. I recall a thin, reedy man. Greased back hair. Leather. He's a mid town thug with an eclectic mix of associations. I scroll down a list of names and march up the food chain looking for any name that pulls some weight and has travelled in the circles that overlap the likes of Moriarty. Then I hit a name that I know very well and stop cold.

Phillip Styles.

I sit back in my chair and stare unbelieving. He not only travels in Moriarty's circles; he's applying for the vacancy. I go over the murders again in my mind. It doesn't make any sense.

What the hell is going on?

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As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen – Sherlock Holmes

The sun beams into the room. If this were 221B, Mrs Hudson would enter with an overabundance of cheeriness and blast open the curtains, pleased beyond words at the temporary respite from rain and gloominess. She would be the embodiment of a lightness of spirit that I cannot fathom and do not share.

It is morning. Early for me but late for my brother. He has long since left. What remains is a well-appointed breakfast table soured by time. The toast is cold. The coffee is syrup. The only bright spot is that my brother has gone to work and left me a stack of morning's papers. I ignore them in favour of inspecting eggs under glass that were perfection two hours ago. Now they are nothing more than congealed lumps of canary yellow.

I take a piece of toast, sniff and reject it. Through process of elimination, I arrive back to the least poisonous choice and pour myself a cup of coffee and dress it to suit myself. I sip and wince. There is not enough sugar in Jamaica to mask the bitterness of that coffee. There is nowhere for me to go and nowhere for me to be so I pull out a chair at the end of the table and sit and have another mouthful of bitterness. It is perfectly dreadful but I am parched and toast would be worse. I drink again and look around the overly familiar walls, contemplating the boredom that plagues the inside of infinite waiting. This purgatory is endless and I seek again any minute diversion that will get me through the next ten minutes of emptiness.

My eye falls to the headline of the top paper. It is The Daily Mirror. My brother reads everything as I do since you never know where you will find a nugget of information. Besides, some of the tabloids have the most accidentally informative pictures. What they lack in journalistic integrity, they make up for in photographic skill and quality of innuendo.

I tilt my head to the side and read the headline. The print is two inches high – a newspapers version of an all-cap email. It is another political scandal that was obvious three months ago had anyone taken the care to pay attention. Naturally, there is a picture – a hyper close-up. It is unflattering, taken with a lens that over accentuates a bulbous nose. The story itself is uninteresting. Variations on this theme are told and retold in parliaments the world over. Politicians should understand by now that everyone owns a cell phone and these phones can take high quality zoom pictures. They should also be aware or been told by their high-paid handlers that papers pay for said photographs and in some cases depending on the subject and the people involved, pay handsomely. They are adults. They should know better. The indiscretion annoys me. In disgust, I flip into the paper a few pages randomly to get past the rivers of text the paper has spewed on the story so I can get something else. There is nothing but wasted, inaccuracies written to titillate the masses. I move on and go from page to page without stopping. On page twelve there is another photograph. The picture registers on an unconscious level and I have the page turned before I understand what I have just seen. An idea seizes me. It stops me in mid page turn. I snap back the page and let the single leaf fall back. As the edge settles to the flatness of the table and sunlight falls onto the picture, I blink and recognize the image.

Lestrade.

I snatch the sheet out and separate it from the rest of the paper and take it towards the window so I can study it in the full sun. I fold up the paper and edit out the text so that nothing else remains but the picture. I focus on this stunning photograph and stare and take in every detail the pixilated reduction can deliver.

I can hardly comprehend it. In this singular photograph, he is … I am almost doubting my own understanding … he is suppressing what may well be a smile. Lestrade? A smile? I look up and close my eyes and review years of photographs I have seen of him in the papers. No. I shake my head. His pictures are frowning, angry, serious. He has never once looked like this. This? He looks strong, confident. Like he has won. He is as I have never seen him before. The idea crosses my mind that he is often wrong when he thinks he is right but then again – he never comes across this way when he thinks he is just right. No. This time, he thinks he is perfectly right. I think a moment. Perhaps he located the missing house cat? Not even Lestrade would be so stupid as to attempt such a thing. But there is something in his expression that suggests knowledge that he is not sharing. There is something else. Something remarkable. Something profound. He knows he is right. Irrefutably.

I open up the paper again and read every word. His quotations are vague, non-committal. He plays with the press. There is almost a perversity to his avoidance of revealing anything at all. His words have been picked with an ironclad insight I have never known him to have.

I lower the paper and say aloud to no one. "There's been a break in the case."

Immediately, I want all the details and I am reminded again how my death has isolated me. This news story has given Lestrade a lack of transparency that I have rarely had to navigate. The other papers I devour with the enthusiasm that others would have instead used on the dry toast and dead eggs. There are two more pictures of Lestrade in other papers. They are equally as cryptic and reveal a smugness that he never has. The internet does not support my efforts to find anything remotely useful. What the devil happened? Curiosity eats at me like an acid.

There's almost nothing that I can glean externally so I resort to my best resource - my own mind - I retreat to Mycroft's library and ensconce myself in thought. I begin to reflect on the facts of the case. As I do so, I lose track of time and occupy myself in my mind castle and my world of images. I easily settle into a meditative state until I am interrupted by a single word.

"You."

The voice does not startle me because it is familiar but it is a surprise and I have to come to the edge of my fugue state to address him. I am unmoved, just altered in consciousness.

"What."

"You."

"Are we to go on like this all evening or do you have a point? What is it?"

"You hacked my phone."

"I did not." The very idea.

"Yes. You did." He strides across the floor and digs out his phone. With a few key strokes, he enters a multi-symbolic password and then navigates to what I assume will the proof. The time it takes to arrive at his evidence is enough to take the wind out of his crisply trimmed sails. There is nothing like a long delay to diffuse the enthusiastic punch of one's argument.

"There!" He says eventually with the smugness of the righteous.

I look up at him first and then as I speak, gradually shift my focus to the out held phone.

"I have done no such - " I cut off the last word.

The screen reads "r3m3mb3r_m3". It is a text message from an anonymous account. I inhale sharply. Those two words would ever come only from a single source. A single person.

"What is this supposed to mean?"

I don't look at his eyes. I know exactly what that means. John is using my computer. He has accessed my files – not just any files but those files in particular that have been hidden in the darkest corners of a digital database. I had set up the passwords as a way to ensure access was controlled. John. No. Why. The thoughts seize me one after another. He has no idea what he is doing.

Then Mycroft is talking again and I am wrenched from several concurrent lines thinking to catch him in mid sentence.

"… And if that isn't enough, I have had two separate notices today about your friend John Watson. He has been sighted wandering town in a most remarkably direct fashion in the most questionable corners. One almost imagines he is on a mission of some type." He does some more flicking of his screens and cues up a video for me. "Here. Take a look at that and tell me what you see."

I am silent and let the two minutes of video surveillance stream. The snippets show his progress along a street. Then John is outside a shop. I know it well – Phillip Style's shop. John looks thin and his face is worn. But there is an energy in his walk - a sense of purpose that I have not seen in him since my death. I recognize the area and I realize that however impossible it may have been, he has figured it out. I know immediately that so has Lestrade. They have both solved the mystery of the multiple deaths. They know Phillip Styles is behind this.

"You know what this means, don't you." Mycroft says it as a statement, not a question posed rhetorically or even conversationally.

I withdraw into silence and steeple my hands and press my chin against the fullness of my index fingers. Phillip Styles will think – will know as irrefutable fact - that Sherlock is alive because no one will believe that Dr Watson could have done this accidentally, on his own without my help. For all intents and purposes as far as the most dangerous of criminal elements are concerned, John has just confirmed my status among the living. And John, by contrast, is alone wandering the streets and delving into dangerous territories, completely unaware. If he persists, he will get himself killed. My next move is a foregone conclusion – inevitable. The idea catches me unaware and all at once, my heart is racing. In only a few moments, the entire landscape has unexpectedly shifted. John will not be able to survive without me.

It's time for my resurrection.

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As ever, thank you so much for reading. Thank you so much to the gentle lovelies who have been so nice to poke and prod and ask for the ending. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen – Molly 

I think about Sherlock a lot. Mostly I think about him on the way to and from work or when I'm alone or when there's not much else to think about. I suppose, even when there is, I think about him. It's hard not to. I mean, after all. I know. And the others don't. So there is no one to talk to. Well. There is, but I am hardly able to ring up his brother for a natter, now am I? I'm sure I wouldn't know where to begin if I did. So I am left alone to wonder where he is and if he's alright and if he's staying out of trouble. I think he probably isn't because he can't, really. I wonder if he eats well and if he has any – well – friends that look in on him – and I am almost certain that he doesn't.

Then again, I often wonder if he has left England entirely and taken to travelling and then I imagine all the wonderful far off places he could visit. Egypt to the Pyramids. China to the Buddhist temples. South America to the rain forests. Las Vegas even, for the shows and a bit of a pull at the penny slots. Or maybe a nice long cruise in the Caribbean floating along those wonderful blue waters, warm breezes, and not a care in the world.

Still. When I've run out of places he might go, I turn my mind to how he might come back if he were to come back. I am almost certain he will come back. I mean. I'm pretty certain he will come back. Truly, he really does have to. Come back, that is. Eventually, I mean. He can't just leave the rest of them – thinking – what they think. He wouldn't. Even he wouldn't. So I mostly know he will maybe come back. Sooner or later. I have it almost completely sorted in my mind how he will do it, too.

No doubt Sherlock will plan this for months. I see it as a day where the sun is radiant – perhaps a day in spring when there is something electric in the air where you think everything is coming back to life and the possibilities for the day are limitless. His entrance will nothing short of theatrical, of course. Just like his exit was. He's never been one for half measures and nothing quiet or subdued about him when he is trying to make a point. If he can make a show of it, he will. There will be reporters there and maybe even television cameras. His return will be an event and he will not waste it. I see some great gathering taking place - a staged event where there are hundreds of people – dignitaries – all assembled for some serious or widely publicized purpose. I just know he will be at the centre of it unknown and unnoticed and then - at the peak moment – reveal himself with some pivotal observation that will turn everything on its head. The papers won't know what is more important – that he is back from the dead or that he has solved another great mystery.

Then again, maybe he will appear in a court room at the trial of an innocent man. The crime will be almost perfect. Everyone will assume the accused guilty. The stakes will be high – murder always is. The papers will be at a fever pitch. It won't be Lestrade's case. Maybe something international. Involving the Royals, I think. Perhaps a kidnapping, or a theft and a … a series of murders that will have been worthy of Moriarty. With the final days of hearings closing in, the media will have printed themselves dry of ink with the words. The internet and Twitter will be slow under its sheer traffic weight and then Sherlock will shimmer into the back of the court room silently and then someone – perhaps the judge – will take notice and stop in mid-sentence to gape. It will catch everyone's attention and they will look round for the source and then there will be pandemonium, flashbulbs and the hanging of Twitter servers.

Perhaps he will save the Queen. Or rescue a princess. He will be in disguise! And then he will walk away and then suddenly turn back and with a grand swirl of a great coat or cape, it will be him standing there with his arms outstretched and lifted like a conductor at the end of a symphony. There will be a long silent beat as the crowd takes in his singe moment of heroism and then a second to fully register who he was and what this means. There will be a rush forward - like the breaking of a dam - and he will be swarmed and rushed away with the force of it all. The air will be bursting with lights and flashes and there will be screams as security surrounded him and those he had rescued but he will pull away from the rescuers and face the press as he normally did with a condescending sneer that had they only applied themselves they could have figured out long ago that he was alive and well.

Then, after some lengthy reconsideration, I settle on the idea that his opening lines will be. "Sorry to startle everyone. I know it's a bit sudden. Apologies – to John and Mrs Hudson – for what I put them through. And don't be mad at Molly – I had her sworn to secrecy." He will be pleased with himself and he will smile and tweak his glove and hold up his hand and say no more because he will then have other duties to attend - chief among them reunite with Dr Watson and Mrs Watson and Lestrade. And they will all be so happy to see him and find him alive and well. It will be a shock, of course, but such a happy shock to find him back from the dead. The Inspector will be vexed beyond words but secretly pleased and it will show around his eyes. John will be moved to silent, unending smiles of joy. They will hug in that strange stilted way men have when they are neither used to displays of affection. Still – their awkwardness will mean more than words. And looking on, Mrs Hudson will be reduced to tears, her hand pressed up to her lips as she does when she wants to contain herself. It occurs to me that this welcome of his friends will make it even more worth it to Sherlock.

As I pipette the last of the blood samples, I then notice the time. I can start to pack up and go home. I have no particular plans for the night. It is raining and dreary and there is no Inspector Lestrade hanging about the door with a sheepish nod and a quiet ask me to hang back to answer a few questions. I had not seen him in a week. At least – not in person. He had – however – been all over every tabloid in London. Whatever help I had given him had seemed to mark a change in the case. The press all know it, too but he is tight lipped about it and that is winding the reporters into a frenzy.

The tube is overcrowded as it is during rush hour but the closeness gives me a chance to discretely see what is in the afternoon papers. Every now and then over a shoulder, I catch a picture of Lestrade and that photograph. One look at it and … well … maybe I know him well enough to read a bit of happiness into his expression.

On my way home, I drop into Tesco's to pick up a few items for dinner. Not much - just some cereal and a litre of milk and a few frozen dinners that are on sale. I buy a small frozen pizza as a treat and a nice packet of lemon biscuits. At the check out, I debate a packet of crisps and I fiddle with the corner of the bag three or four times before I finally succumb to the lure of salt and vinegar. In my mind, I calculate how many cookies I can have if I also have the cookies. Using a convoluted logic that makes perfect sense to me - I decide that my reward for getting through Wednesday will be to have both. It is only fair. And then I also pick up a can of cola to go with the pizza and chips.

On my way up to my apartment, I sort out the telly for the evening as well. There are programs at eight and nine that I want to see. That means there is enough time to have a nice slice of pizza beforehand and then save the cookies and chips for the first show. I consider saving the cola until then but dismiss it knowing that pizza is unbearable without a cola. It is simply impossible to eat pizza with tea or milk. You need a proper fizzy drink for pizza to go down right. Preferably one with good acid content. It is all basic chemistry, really.

Up the stairs I go and balance my bags with a bit of expertise even though they threaten to fall at any moment. My key slips in the key hole and the door opens just as the bags find a bit of unbalance and I have to partly tumble into my apartment to save the milk.

My apartment is in semi darkness. The lights are off. The blinds are up and I can see the familiar skyline of my furniture and how the kitchen counter has the jar of pasta and the flour and sugar tins and then the bowl of apples on the table and then how the reading lamp is high and then couch is long and low. I can't manage the overhead light switch so I make my way to the counter and am almost there when the oddest feeling overtakes me. It's not a sound but the queerest … lack of echo … as if there is someone there. All at once, I am certain, I am not alone. I freeze and the hairs on the back of my neck tingles.

"Hello, Molly." A voice sounds from nowhere and above and all over at once.

I jump and turn too quickly. One of the bags hits my counter and splits open. The milk carton fall and breaks apart. I yell to make noise and release the fear. The intruder lets out an almost silent 'tsk' that chills my hackles.

"AIIE!" I grab the nearest object – a soup ladle – and whirl around and hold it up in a Hollywood movie defence pose. My senses are reduced to instincts. I grip the handle tightly and bare my teeth in preparation to fight.

"Miss me?"

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As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	17. Chapter 17

This chapter contains strong language. Stop now if it will offend.

Chapter Seventeen – Greg Lestrade 

It never ends.

Making a case is an impossibly long, slow build. Evidence is bagged, tagged and logged. Then there's autopsy reports, lab results, prints and pictures. Interviews are done then transcripts are added. Slap it up on a white board as you go along and rearrange it all until you can put it all together in some sort of sensible order that will convince a jury. Make sure to keep bosses and colleagues and underlings appraised who all raise questions and try to tear apart the logic to see if it will withstand attack. It all concentrates and blurs together until an investigation is nothing but a protracted series of conversations and paperwork punctuated by back room politics and procedural fine points that prevents me from getting here to there with any kind of directness or speed. It is astounding that anyone ever actually goes to jail. Seriously.

"Yes. I am sure." I say to the Chief Inspector. I am standing at his desk and concentrate on being still so he has no distractions. Getting his approval is critically important. I want permission for … latitude. On one side of his desk are my case files, opened haphazardly, picked over and mostly unread. The other side has a stack of newspapers with articles circled and flagged by our media relations staff and read by everybody in the building. One of the pictures of me was posted in the men's wc with an uncomplimentary caption and is now ripped in four and binned where it can't be retrieved and mended. In the middle of the desk is a single photograph.

I am here front and centre because the yes I want is not forthcoming and is compounded by the fact that the press has been unhappy with my reluctance to talk. They have punished me the only way they can - by filling in blanks on their own – almost all of them incorrect but hidden in just enough truth that it makes my superiors nervous. If you've been on the crime beat long enough, you can print some pretty good guesses. These reporters are experts at the manipulation of facts and ideas and that has made many – my boss included – unwilling to permit me any latitude. It is the Fifth Estate's revenge on me. After a superb piece of detective work, I am now reduced to arguing for why I want to use highly specialized resources to go on what is currently being termed a wild goose chase. I am chafing at the injustice. My boss is calling my press interviews a poor performance. I call it self-preservation.

"Tell me why." He leans back in his chair and anchors himself with an elbow. I know the expression. The odds are currently against me and not by a narrow margin.

"There." I point to the centre of his desk. The picture. The only picture that matters in this case. I am about to launch into an explanation when my phone vibrates and then rings. It is loud. It always is but the harsh claxon in the quiet of the Chief Inspector's office sounds disproportionately rude and intrusive. It is. The noise drowns out our conversation. I reach for the holster, pull out the phone and look at the display.

Molly?

She has my number. She never uses it.

"You need to get that?"

"No sir." I say and then silence the ring so it goes directly to voice mail and slip the phone back in place. I do my best to look contrite. I have no room to irritate at the moment.

He waves as a way to get me to continue. "You were saying?"

"Yeah. I have every reason to believe that this man here -" I point him out in the photograph, "- is our ticket to explaining who is behind the string of murders."

The Chief Inspector opens his mouth and my phone emits a trio of beeps – three staccato chirps that sound like crickets on steroids. There's a voice mail message. I maintain eye contact and make no move for my phone. He scowls.

"Are you done?"

"Sorry sir," I say.

"Why do I think you've already questioned him?" The conclusion does not come with anything more than annoyance.

"Well ... I ..." I knew it would eventually come to this but I had hoped that there would be more of a preamble.

"Right. No need to say any more, Greg. I do wish you would confide in me before you go off half cocked."

"It's not half ... "

"Do you enjoy having our reputation torn apart on the front page?"

"No. But I felt it prudent to keep this quiet. I agree with you - the less press the better until we understand what is going on. And this man - he knows..."

The phone vibrates again as a precursor to another round of rings. The klaxons go off again before I can silence it. The Chief Inspector gives me a glare that goes right through me. I pull out the phone again and glance at the name.

Molly? Again?

I frown.

"Do you need to get that?" He looks at me with impatience.

"Yes." I say without thinking and then, "No. It's ok. Sorry, sir." I put the call to voice mail and then a few beats later there are the same three shrieking cricket chirps. As I carry on the discussion, part of my mind becomes preoccupied with why she might be calling me. The span of time was so short. Maybe the message was long and she was cut off? I return to my original thought that Molly never calls. It takes some doing but I abandon her to return fully committed to the Chief Inspector's direction.

"So. Assuming I buy … all this. You want to do what exactly?"

"I want to arrest Glen Giambatta because he is the connection between Varella and – " I hesitate to say Phillip Styles because I know the reaction it will create. "And whoever is behind all this. I am almost certain what to expect but I need to do it right and clean. Giambatta is connected and he could disappear if he gets an idea we're interested. But I also need the media to be completely away form this because - "

The phone vibrates. I feel a spike of rage charge through me. I squeeze my hand around the phone and would crush it with my bare hand if I thought it would silence it. I feel harassed and my efforts at this meeting sabotaged. Why is this phone going off?!

"For God's bloody sake, would you answer the phone! I can't bear these endless interruptions!"

I don't even look at the name and answer sharply. "Lestrade!" There is no disguising my anger.

"Oh!"

What the - ? It's Molly.

"Molly?" My eyes catch the Chief Inspector's. He knows the name and tilts his head. He is clearly unimpressed that nothing more than a lab tech has interrupted us. I take a step away from the desk and turn sideways as if this will give me privacy. It doesn't. It just makes Molly's voice less audible to my boss.

"Hello, Inspector ... I am so sorry to bother you. It's me, Molly." She is apologetic. She – too – knows that she never calls me.

"What?" As soon as I say it, I know it's graceless. Another part of me doesn't care. Progress in my case hangs in the balance. Time and whatever credit I have with the CI is down to almost zero. This call better be fast.

"...I ... uh ..." She stutters and her voice wavers. "I am ... sorry … to bother you. I ... you need … to come to my apartment." She always sounds demure and tentative but now, she sounds nervous. She swallows in a gulp, like her mouth has gone dry. Her discomfort is palpable and her voice had that shaky quality of someone who is overwhelmed.

"What? Why? Are you in trouble?"

"No. I … I'm fine, Inspector." It is stilted and completely unconvincing. She is a terrible liar.

"I can send a car round."

"No. Don't. Not that. Please. No. It's not that at all." She says it too quickly and clearly the idea of a patrol car to her apartment is not what she wants and the mere suggestion makes it worse. "I'm perfectly fine. But ... you. Inspector. Need to come. Now. Please?"

"I'm ... busy … Molly. Can't it wait until ... ?"

"No." She gasps and it is an urgent and quick response back. She repeats herself with a shade more control than the first round but her voice is still high and reedy. "No. You ... you need come. I can't explain it over the phone ... you need to … see."

"Molly. What's going on? Are you sure you are alright?"

"I ... can't talk to you over the phone. You ... please believe me. I ... need you to come to my apartment. It is ... really important. Please. You have to come and … see." She is nearly in tears by the time she gets to the end of her little obscenely uninformative speech.

"Alright." I relent and find my heart rate rising with annoyance. I am a hair away from getting huge progress towards an arrest of Phillip Styles and this is derails everything. I have more important things to do with my time than pay a visit to Molly. Still. She never calls and she is distracted to the extreme. She is good to me and clearly there is something the matter so I refresh my idea of where she lives and her apartment number. I reassure her that I will be there within the hour.

When I hang up, I have another long staring match with the Chief Inspector. He has several opinions about what he has just witnessed and is not interested in sharing any of them. He doesn't need to voice them. I know disapproval when I see it. I have lost ground on getting what I want here. A clean cut and run may be my only option. I will have to start all over again and from a weaker place that I have even now but it's not like I am unfamiliar with the position.

"So. Is this a big break in the case, then?"

"No." I look at my phone and replay the conversation in my mind. I cannot make sense of it. She never calls. Never. "I ... I have a couple of details I need to check out at the ... uh ..."

"Well when you get back, then we can discuss something of passing importance to the CID, shall we ... those five murders that have not managed to solve themselves?"

I am powerless to argue his venomous sarcasm. He is frustrated with me again - or still - and I leave feeling like I spend my life in the middle of misunderstandings. My am sure my ex wife would agree completely.

A little over an hour later, I pull up to her apartment and get to her via the lift to the fourth floor. Her apartment is two doors from the elevator and only a few steps are required to take me to the door. I knock.

Inside, I hear a soft tracing of a chain lock and then a switching of a deadlock and then the final jiggling of the door handle. It opens an instant later with a click but only by a slim quarter. Molly pops her head around the door and she is pale.

"Oh. Inspector ... So. Come in. Then. Yes?" She uses too many filler words as she opens the door and lets me pass. "Here you are. Well."

I step into her living room and hear her close the door behind me and reset the bolt and the chain. Her apartment is utterly undisturbed. I turn without preamble and take a proper look at her. She is flustered but unharmed. No bruising. No breakage. No blood.

With that, I get straight to the point.

"What - …" I start off too harshly and check myself with a pause. The next is gentler. "What is going on, Molly? What do I need to see?"

"I am so sorry, Inspector." She is wringing her hands. The sharpness of my words raises tears into her eyes. "I am sorry. He made me."

She has been put under duress? He? I take a step toward her, reflexively protective. "Who? Who made you do what? What's going on?"

Then, a voice speaks from behind me, but sounds like it comes from inside my brain.

"Hello, Lestrade." The tone is languorous, sardonic. Almost bored.

I freeze and the hackles on the back of my neck rise. It is impossible. And not the least bit funny.

"Who the hell do you think you - " I whirl around in the direction of the voice. All I can see is a shadow - a form that is in the hallway still and hidden from direct view. The outline of the man is familiar ... for a fleeting moment a memory of the past flits through my mind and I have to dismiss it. Simply impossible. Then the form takes a step forward.

I stare and watch the apparition take full human form in front of me. There is no debate. No question. It is real. I feel the impact of it square in the chest, like I've been hit by a car and driven clean over.

"Bloody ..." I hardly have the breath to say the words. I suck in what little breath I can then force the whole thought out, "Bloody fucking hell."

"Hello, Lestrade."

He stands before me. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock. Holmes.

"Bloody fucking hell!"

From the corner of my eye, I can see Molly nearly shivering with emotion. She is wringing her hands, nervous and she speaks so softly I can hardly hear her over the blood rushing in my ears. I can't hear her because Sherlock Holmes is alive.

"Bloody FUCKING hell!" I explode with such energy it nearly lifts me off the ground. My outburst completely drowns out Molly. She snaps her mouth shut and takes a few sniffs of air as if she has temporarily stopped breathing and needs air all of a sudden. She is mute and blinking.

"Lestrade." Sherlock comes forward and I can see him better. He is as he always is – tall, arrogant, precise - and I do nothing but stare and blink as he walks. It is all I can do. I am reeling from the shock. From the implications. Fucking hell! All this time … all this time! He's been alive all this time! If he gets close enough to me, I will kill him.

"Lestrade." He says my name again. "I need your help."

"You!" I use an expansive motion and point at him with an outstretched index finger. "Are alive!"

"Sharp as ever, Lestrade. Can't get anything past you, can I?"

"Jesus!" Death has not improved his personality any.

"I need your help. To tell John."

John Watson? God. No. I wipe my face with my hands and then am driven to move because I can't stand still and live in my skin. I take several steps then stop and rake my fingers through my hair. Think. Think.

All at once, an image of John flashes in my mind. Then another and another.

There he is – out of his mind with grief – staring at me with dead eyes and his hand on a loaded gun ready to shoot me. On the one-way door, there's a patient care status filled with small print and check boxes that includes a small, unassuming tick at the words "suicide risk" and another at the word "military". Then I see him flat out on a hospital bed and stare wide bruises half hidden by restraints that have been wrenched tight from resistance. Then there is the unrelenting sadness that settled around him like a thick shroud. It took the air out of a room and broke Mrs Hudson's heart one sigh at a time.

John Watson needs to be told that Sherlock Holmes is alive? I feel another hard blow land squarely in the middle of my solar plexus. I am nearly doubled over from the impact of this idea.

"Oh my God." I gasp out the words. "He is going to fucking kill you."

"Yes. And I assure you, he is quite capable of doing just that. I am hoping that you will help ensure this does not happen. Dead is fun but I'd prefer it not to be permanent." Then he turns, "Molly, we will need your help as well."

She nods mutely and her eyes are as big as plates. She makes a noise like a gasp or a wheeze and then abandons speaking for another nod. There is a certain terror she has having now been sucked into the middle of this.

I stare at him and am still stunned that he is alive standing in front of me. The implications of all of what has happened slowly begins to sink in. He must have staged everything. Everything. Including the where and the when and the in front of whom. He fell off the top of St Barts in some kind of ludicrous stunt and staged his own death. And he forced his best friend watch every last bit of it!

He may be the cruelest man I have ever known.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" I say with a sickening fury that for John, Sherlock Holmes is dead and buried in the local cemetery. "Do you have ANY idea what you did to him?! John is your fucking FRIEND!"

"Yes. I know. And his life is in danger. I need your help to save him."

xxx xxx xxx xxx xxxx

"Why?" John says it easy – as a statement - with that soft little lilt that makes it sound like he is trying to work out the idea. He is in his chair. He is comfortable, settled with the Daily Mirror.

He is not having any of my explanation.

"What for?"

"I ... she's invited us over." I say again.

"Alright." He is not the least bit convinced. He waits and I stay silent. He waits a bit more then goes on with a prompt. "And ..."

"And nothing. She has asked us both to come over. For a visit."

"A visit? What's going on?"

"Nothing? Why do you have to be so suspicious?"

"I don't have to be. I just am. Molly isn't one to just invite the two of us over for a cuppa. Something is up."

I bite my tongue and refuse to argue that "nothing is up". I cannot in good conscience argue too hard. I might have in other circumstances but not this. When he finds out ... it will be … I don't know what it will be. At least if he has suspicions, he will have prepared himself to expect something. He is beyond able to guess the truth. But I cannot make any hints at it yet.

I haven't slept in two days because of the sheer weight of it. I am adept at death. It is my career. Announcing that someone is alive is another skill entirely. That's why it has taken two days to plan. I cannot tell him any other way. He will never believe me unless he sees Sherlock in the flesh. And Sherlock can't reappear until John Watson knows. So in the meantime, Molly entertains a psychopath in her apartment. Molly has been gracious and tolerant. Sherlock is an impossible house guest. But she cares. Deeply.

"I just ... I just need you to come with me. To Molly's."

"Alright." He lowers the newspaper he has been trying to read and uses the motion as a way to dismiss me. He folds the paper up and plunks it on the table in a drop. With both hands on the arms of the hair, he pushes himself upright. "Alright. I'll play along. Of we go then." He says as he gets his coat. "Off to see Molly. For a cup of tea, then?"

I don't answer because he is being sarcastic and anything I say from now until this is - done - will be held against me. I am so careful to stick to nothing but the bare facts of the matter that I feel almost brittle. We are going to Molly's. He has filled in the blank that it's for tea. He knows there is something up. And I can't tell him what.

In the moment, I assess him and his mood and his reactions and I do everything to anticipate what is going to happen. We all have. Been round and round it a hundred times or more. All I can think is that it is going to be a shock. No matter what we do or how we do it, this is going to be a complete and utter shock. There is a part of me that is filled with a deep sense of happiness that John Watson will be reunited with Sherlock. It will be profound closure for him. Moreover, he will have his best friend back. On the other hand - he has suffered - and Sherlock created that all as a premeditated stunt that John Watson has had to bear almost completely on his own. And in the face of overwhelming arguments to the contrary, John never stopped believing in his friend. In less than an hour, Sherlock will be back among the living. I can't count how many times has John told me in words and in actions - that he has deeply missed this pain in the ass and wished he would come back. Once in ten thousand years, I guess, a wish comes true.

We saunter down the stairs and are met at the bottom by Mrs Hudson.

"Where are you two off then?"

"Just out for a breath of air."

"Well. Mind you don't stay all night at the pub. The Inspector has work in the morning."

Now that we are out the door and Sherlock Holmes is about to be resurrected in the eyes of John Watson, I worry that we have not done enough and that we have not planned this completely out yet. Sherlock is not the most sensitive man in the world. Have we made mistakes? Only time will tell.

"You're quiet." John says to break the silence in the car. "Well. You would have told me if someone had died." He outlines what he has worked out so far. It is a sublime torment as I listen without comment. "It's not my birthday. Not yours. Molly wouldn't spring a party for herself and not actually *say* so in advance. She'd have dropped a hint or two, don't you think? We would have picked up on at least one of them. Yes?" When I don't answer, he carries on. "Has she got a new roommate, then?"

I don't say anything and look where I'm driving as I turn the corner. I don't want him to see my expression. A new roommate indeed.

"Or maybe she has a new pet? That must be it. A cat. We are going all this way to see her new cat? Surely not. Or maybe yes. I do wish you'd tell me what's going on. Say something, for god's sake!"

We arrive at the apartment and we park and take the elevator to the fourth floor and the welcome part unfolds exactly as it did two days ago when I went through the same routine.

I knock on the door and from inside, the chain and bolts release. The door opens almost instantly but by less than half. Molly has been waiting for us. Her face is almost white and her eyes are big and blinky.

"Hello." She bobs her head and moves aside. "Come in."

Xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen – John 

I follow Lestrade into Molly's apartment and smile at her as I pass. She does not make eye contact with me and instead looks like she is about to be sick. With her silence, I search for a cause. I look around. I have been here before and it is almost the same. Nothing seems out of order. Except her. She dissociates from us momentarily by making a fuss of closing the door behind us. It takes her overly long as if the task needs particular care but all she does is shut the door and then push it twice again to ensure she has closed it. When she comes towards us, I study her. Her cheeks are flushed and she is not breathing deeply. Her eyes dart from the hallway to Lestrade. Back and forth. Twice more. I look down the hall. There is nothing. I get the feeling that she's waiting. All I can discern is that she is agitated.

No one has offered to take my coat so I keep my hands in my pockets and follow Greg into the centre of the room. There is a chesterfield in the main area with a chair at either end. Two tables square the space off and each has a lamp but they don't quite match. Molly has a counter that juts out from a wall and it's this that separates the kitchen from the living space. It's small but cosy. There are several homey touches - a knitted afghan, and a few flowery throw pillows that are distinctly feminine. I am slightly disappointed that there are no other guests. Part of me expected company and some sort of a party. I scan the room for evidence of a pet - a leash or a squeak toy.

Without preamble, Greg turns around to face me and starts talking. His face is serious. His tone is quiet and evenly modulated. He is giving me his full detached police voice.

"Alright, John. I'll get right to the point. There's something we need to tell you." The thought flashes through my mind that this is what he sounds like when he does a next of kin death notification. Calm but clear and precise. He will be kind as he can but not misunderstood. He cannot sacrifice the truth to spare emotions. I wonder if someone has died. I doubt it will be anyone I know.

"Yes. I gathered that." I nod a bit and wait.

Greg shifts from one foot to the other and takes a breath. He is nervous? It is unlike him. There is a hesitation in him that is as if he is trying to come to terms with what he is about to say. Whatever it is, it is clearly tormenting him.

"Go on. Out with it."

"I ... " Greg opens his hands to me and shifts to the side. "Sit?"

"Is it sit down news? It's that bad? I really need to sit, then?" I say it lightly, as an antidote to the seriousness, but no one laughs. All at once, the hackles come up and I get that hinky battlefield feeling. I don't know what but something isn't right. A finger of ice traces up my spine. Things have shifted but I can't say how. I stay standing and resist a shiver. I cannot sit now. Not even if he insisted.

I feel the room get a little smaller and I am compelled – driven – to take my hands out of my pockets. My palms open reflexively. The alert readiness is a reflex but it doesn't make me feel prepared. My mind started scrolling down a list of what might be the bad news. Sick? Someone is sick? Greg? Not him. He's perfectly sound. Look at him. Healthy as a horse. Mrs Hudson? No. Not Mrs Hudson. I see her every day. She is fine. Besides, I think she would confide in me first. That leaves Molly. Molly? Certainly there would have been some clue I would have picked up on long before now. Yet she appears quite anxious. Molly … what's happened to her?

"John." Greg interrupts my thoughts. He looks so serious. He takes a deep breath then muscles out the words. "Sherlock is alive."

There's a pause. Sherlock? Alive? I laugh out loud. I can't help it. All my tension dissipates then my laugher subsides as I notice that neither one of them has joined me. My insides contract. In an instant, I am right back preparing for an ambush.

Greg exchanges another look at Molly and then glances again up the vacant hallway. I check, too. It is empty. When I turn back to Greg, he is grim and persistent with his idea. "I know this must be difficult to understand, John. But Sherlock *is* alive." He sounds convinced. Genuine. Completely certain that what he is saying is the truth but it's not even remotely believable. The idea is perfectly preposterous but I'm not laughing. Not any more. It's not funny. They should know better. They *do* know better. In an effort to keep a reign on my temper, I roll back my shoulders forcing the muscles to move and I try to shake this imploding feeling of being cornered.

"Sherlock is dead." I say it and pick over the words carefully, like I am navigating a maze of emotional trip wires. I stare right into Greg's eyes – unblinking and talk to him directly. My voice is hard and there is a slice of anger to it because he is playing some game that is forcing me to say what I say. "I should know. He died ... in front of me."

I have a flash of that fall again and let it roll out in my mind. His arms spread out and that interminable lean forward until gravity took him in its complete thrall and the then ... chaos ... and then turning him over and then ... his dead eyes looking into mine. There is blood ... blood everywhere … the blood that I have seen my entire career bleeding from a wound that will never mend and that I never had a chance to heal. The heat of nausea envelopes me and I feel again the irreversible gulf drawing between Sherlock and I as they wrench me away from him and all the time - no pulse. No pulse. No pulse ... My friend … Dead. They wouldn't even let me try to save him. Then my memory does what it always does to me – renders me powerless with grief. Whatever this thing is that Greg and Molly are staging, it is cruel. Both of them know better. I feel poisoned by their betrayal.

I need to steady myself and when I say it, I say it with finality. I have been teaching myself this fact for months. After the flashback of the fall, it is almost impossible for me to say and when I do, my throat is stripped dry and I am hardly above a whisper. "He's dead."

Greg takes a long slow exhale as if he has become stubbornly fixated on arguing with me and unwilling to let it go. He cannot find any further words to debate me. yet he persists and simply shakes his head from side to side. From behind, I hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Greg does not speak and simply lifts his chin as if to indicate behind me. I turn and from the corner of my eye, I catch the first glimpse of a silhouette that I have not seen anywhere but my dreams. For the briefest moment, I think it might be Sherlock's. But Sherlock is dead. I have been tricked this way once before. It is Mycroft with that stunning family resemblance. The form is enveloped in the darkness and then it speaks.

"Hello, John."

All at once, the form emerges from the shadows. I am certain that I have not heard right. It sounds like … it is … that unmistakeable voice … Sherlock? I cannot take the idea in. I blink and tilt my head a bit as if to improve my hearing. I do not respond and then there is a repetition. I hear the voice call my name again and hardly hear it over the thrumming of blood pounding over my ear drums.

"Hello, John."

Without warning, the finally sound registers. My reaction is instantaneous. Blinded by the pain, I cry out and unable to remain upright, I fold over forward. I grit my teeth and bite down hard on the scream. I feel like I have been cut up the centre. Shivering and gasping, I double over but remain standing up only because I have braced my hands on my knees. My vision deteriorates and tunnels until all I see is blackness and bright flashes. Arms wrap around my shoulders, grip me hard and hold me steady. It is the only reason why I don't fall over. I hear Greg's voice somewhere above me ... but he sounds like he is a hundred miles away.

"John? Are you alright?"

I can't speak. I can't breath. Have I really seen Sherlock Holmes alive in front of me? He is dead. This is a trick. It is a hoax. It is the most terrible practical joke ever. Why have they done this? Why?

"John."

It sounds like Sherlock and I shut my eyes as if this might block out the noise. This is my mind. Playing tricks. This has to stop. It is a nightmare. Another flash back. Every demon I have ever known has awakened and takes flight inside me. They are flying with high energy and new vigor and I feel like I am about to tear apart from the inside out. My molars start to swim in saliva and I grit my teeth so I won't be sick all over Molly's carpet. This cannot be … it is not real. I gasp for air because I have stopped breathing. Another wave of nausea washes over me. Sweat beads on my lower back and soak my clothing. I shift forward and the arms keep holding me upright. All my strength leaves my knees and I start to shake – almost convulse.

I stare down at her carpet and concentrate on retaining control of myself. I blink and study the pattern on the carpet. It's a nice swirly pattern - almost but not quite flowers. Several blues. Harmonic. Asymmetric. There's a bit worn and the threads that are bare have been hidden by the placement of the coffee table. I think to myself that the carpet might be a hand me down. Like the mis-matched lamps. More hand me downs. Poor Molly.

I continue staring at the floor and then slowly, carefully, deliberately, I watch as a single black shoe step into my field of view. A moment later, the toe of a second black shoe appears. It occurs to me that I *know* those shoes. They have wear patterns that I recognize. I have seen them a thousand times and yet never properly looked at them. They are fine Italian leather. Thinner leather than most. High end. Bought as a vanity? I can see the slightest movement of a toe inside one of the shoes. In my imagination, I hear the tiniest tink of metal against metal like the tripping of land mine. The next instant is the silence of death and it seems to last an infinity. For one existential moment – I exist between worlds – caught in the nexus of the before and the after. The living and the dead. The world is frozen in time. It is as fragile as a soap bubble and as long as there is no sound and no motion, I will be safe from harm.

"John. It's me, Sherlock."

Without warning, the voice detonates the IED with a crackling split at the base of my skull and a fire that rips through my nervous system. I hear a noise coming from deep inside me. It starts in the lowest part of my gut and rumbles up and comes out of me in a volcanic torrent of uncontrolled rage. I am blinded and screaming without end. I barrel forward and ram into Sherlock and then keep going until there is a sudden stop. The insides of my veins are on fire and I cannot escape myself as I become engulfed in unshakeable agony. I lash out in retaliation, revenge, fighting for my life. My nerves are spikes of raw energy. The hard wired training takes over and I hit and strike without hesitation or conscience. I know how to fight. I am good at it. Strong. Precise. There is a shattering of glass. Then I black out.

Xx x x xx x x

"... I said, SIT DOWN!"

Greg shoves me back into a chair and he towers over me and wipes his lower lip. It is the first I am aware of my surroundings and I look up at him. He has a black eye and his lip is bleeding. He's breathing hard like he's been in a long tough run and is shaking his hand as if he has hit something solid and hurt himself.

I suck in my lower lip and taste blood then I assess the damage to the side of my mouth with my tongue. I look over and Sherlock is bent over with Molly coming from the kitchen with a towel and a tray of ice. He looks up and a side of his face is swelling. The thought occurs to me that a cheekbone might be broken. Then I think – there he is. Sherlock Holmes. Alive.

At the realization, I am so enervated I can't sit still. I shift and bend and ignore the blood coming down the side of my face. I want to throttle something.

"You!" I lunge for him but Lestrade catches me in the middle and shoves me backwards. I come forward again and keep yelling as Lestrade restrains me. "Do you have any idea -?! You are alive! Jesus! Sherlock! LOOK AT ME!" I am screaming so hard the words burn my throat and make it sore and raw and I am hoarse as I start to stand and repeat myself, "You SON of a BI-"

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock dabs his face with a carefully wrapped cube of ice.

"Sorry? Sorry?! Don't you speak to me! Oh my GOD." I am screaming at him – hysterical as month after month of suffering and grief surface. "You! Are such a - ! Do you have any IDEA -? Any idea? At all? Oh my GOD!" I launch upwards again and then am slammed backwards into a seated position.

"You! SIT DOWN!"

Greg stands right over me as a threat. There is a moment of enervated silence. We each retreat to silent recovery and regroup. I look around the room. The place is a shambles. Furniture upended. Broken glass. Blood spatters on the wall. There has been a fight. No. A full out brawl. Molly did not deserve this. Yet I have no remorse.

All at once there is a flicker of light outside that catches my eye. I turn to watch. A bird passes. There is the window. It is sealed. Completely locked tight. Sealed with how many layers of paint? I can't seem to breathe. I swallow and begin to feel panic rise. Air starts to be thin and I open my mouth and try to get in a breath that will not come. The room feels like it is collapsing around me. I start to gasp for air. My heart begins to beat faster and I feel sweat wash over me again. There is an aura of panic that swirls around my mind and pulsates as it gathers mass and energy. I need to get out of here. The feeling builds until I can't stand it and I bolt for the door. My reaction is too fast for Greg. He lunches for me and misses.

"I have to get out." I tear open the door and slam it behind me.

Xxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D (for those who might be … erhm … suffering … there are a couple more chapters left …)


	19. Chapter 19

CHAPTER Nineteen - Lestrade

I'll tell you what. For a congenial man of slight build, John Watson is ruthless in a fight. At one point, I think he is actually going to kill us both. No. That's not entirely true. I think it more than once.

Keeping him seated is impossible and all at once John charges up, knocks me sideways and bolts out the door. The whole thing is fast enough that he's gone before I catch myself. I fall backwards and yelp because I use my injured hand to brace myself. As I stand up, I try to shake off the ache but my whole hand is wickedly sore. I feel it right up to the damn elbow. I think I might have broken a bone.

"What are you waiting for?!" Sherlock stands up and points to the door. Molly has given him another round of ice – this time a proper bundle of it – and instead of using it, he has it held out in the direction of the door.

"What?"

"After him!" Sherlock dances over the broken furniture like it's not there. "Don't let him leave!" He's in a right panic about it and before we can get out of the apartment, we hear the rumble of the elevator doors shut.

"Come on!" He says as we break into the hall way and I fold in after him and we go round and round and down and down the staircase to the crash bars where he hits it with his hip and makes a quick turn to the side. He is checking to make sure I am right with him because he knows he will need back up for this next round with John.

We both spill outside into the side ally of the apartment and with a check this way and that, Sherlock decides.

"This way!"

We run around to the front of the building. The street is deserted. We check up and down the road as far as we can see. More nothing. More no one. Not a bus or a car or even a bicycle is in sight. Did we do the impossible and beat him down? Sherlock runs to right up to the front door and peers through the full glass windows. Even from my vantage point, I can see the empty elevator. John got down before we did.

"He can't be far," I say and point around the building. "I drove. Check the car."

We tear around to the back of the parking lot and there is stillness. Nothing. No one. Not so much as a sound from anywhere. We look up and around and between. No John.

"DAMMIT!" Sherlock spins and hurls the ice down on the pavement. The tea towel flies open and the ice chips scatter and fly away.

"Get in the car …" I say. "He can't be far." I am already digging for the keys and start off for the driver's side. There is a vacuum behind me. I turn. Where did Sherlock go?

He hasn't followed and is standing stock still in the middle of the parking lot. The edge of the tea towel lifts in the wind. Then his crystal blue eyes focus in on me like the sights on a rifle.

"Well?" I say, "Come on!"

"Don't you see what's happened?" Sherlock is angry. "He hasn't GONE anywhere. He was taken. They have him."

"Who?"

"Phillip Styles!"

The sick feeling slams into me like a body blow.

Dammit is an understatement.

X xxx x x xxx x xx x xx

I am driving too fast because I am arguing with Sherlock. We have been in the car no more than ten minutes and I have been on the receiving end of months worth of his pent up sarcasm. I have had it up to here with him and I decide to get some of my own back. He doesn't get everything right. "I told you we should go easy on him,"

"Oh please." He sneers and stares out the window. It is a sulk.

"Admit it. I was right. We wouldn't be dealing with this if you had just agreed to do it my way…"

"Your way? Your way?" He looks straight ahead and then at me. "Don't be stupid. I told you John would be suspicious and so he was – no doubt from very the moment you invited him to Molly's. There was absolutely no point in waiting."

"Sherlock. He is your friend. We could have done things differently. Instead you insisted I cold cock him with the news. No wonder he bolted. You knew as well as I did that he might react this way."

"What? And instead do what? Follow your insipid suggestion? Have a cup of tea and over small talk just let it drop that you had unexpected run in with your mutual friend, Sherlock Holmes? Please. Don't insult me. Or John. And I told you – Styles was only a matter of time." His voice lowers and goes quiet. "He would have gotten to John eventually."

"Yeah, but …" I am raising my voice. I try to look at him and drive at the same time, "This is better? Styles has John – now – in that condition – he's hardly half in his right mind after what just happened! We could have engineered some time for him to adjust to you being back among the living so he could get his head back on straight."

All at once, Sherlock sinks down into the seat and turtles into the collar of his coat. It is complete retreat from the argument. "Styles getting to John was inevitable." He repeats the defense. "Either now. Or later … it's Moriarty's legacy. Everyone now knows how make the puppet called Sherlock Holmes dance."

"What?"

The head pops back up and is instantly ready for another round of arguments. "Do you listen to NOTHING I say?"

I open my mouth but I don't get a chance to answer.

"Once more from the top. Tell me when you lose the thread or when I use words that are too big for you."

"Alright. Alright." I say, "No need to be insulting …"

"Moriarty. He understood the only way to get to me. Through you. He threatened me with three bullets – one for Mrs Hudson, one for you. And one for John. I had to do what he said or you would have all died. Now, when I come back – criminals will know that this is how to solve the problem of Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft is why they don't assassinate me outright. No one is willing to bring about that kind of vengeful retaliation. We may hate each other, but we are family, after all. So if I don't die, I must live. And if I live, then how can they get me either out of the game or to do their bidding? Of all of you, John has always been the most vulnerable. You have the protection of Scotland Yard. Mrs Hudson is just my housekeeper. No. John is the one that they will always target. He is the one; the writer, the constant companion, and the dead shot under pressure. Who else would I miss the most? They threaten John and I obey. I wish it were not so but I cannot help it. John is my … friend … and Styles has figured it out. With Moriarty, there was only one way out and I took it. But I will never again be able to do that. This time convincing others of my death will be impossible. Too many will know too much for it to go undetected. If I die, it is because I will genuinely be dead."

"John will never live through you dying a second time." I grunt. "Trust me. The first time completely shattered him."

"I know." All at once, Sherlock's voice drops below a whisper. "I have considered everything. There is no solution. There is no resolution where both I can win and John is safe. None. There is nowhere to hide. No where to run. It is either me or John."

I don't say anything because I know he is right.

X xxx x x xxx x xx x xx

Twenty four hours later, we have contact with Styles. While neither Sherlock nor I say so, we both know it is going to be the final showdown. This thing will resolve itself one way or the other. I can hardly live in my skin once we know.

"So what's the plan?" I ask. Molly has gone out for take-away. He and I are alone.

"Plan?" He is hardly roused from his deep recline. He has been this way for hours – sullen, uncommunicative, defeated. Listlessly, he moves and shifts his legs. Molly's coffee table was splintered to pieces and removed. There is nowhere to prop his feet. He gives up the idea almost before he has it.

"Yes." I sit on the end of the couch closest to him. "The plan. What's the plan?"

He keeps staring into middle space with his chin pushed against his index fingers as if he is praying. He is without expression and unblinking. He is hardly breathing – like he does when he is having a deep think. "I have no plan. I told you. There is nothing I can do."

The admission of defeat unnerves me. I lose my bearings temporarily. There is plan. There is always a plan. Often we are spoiled for choice. Deep down, I am certain that there has to be a plan. I wait, expecting him to say something, to give me some sarcastic rejoinder that outlines his complex strategy that is going to extricate us all from this seemingly tragic end. Any second he is going to outline where I've missed it. Moments tick by and grow into minutes. He blinks once and then I can't stand it any longer. There is a spider chill runs up my back. It occurs to me he is telling me the truth. He does not have a plan. At all.

"Sherlock? We have to do something."

"What do you suggest?" He says. "I will not become a criminal. Nor can I let my friend die. I cannot do what I did last time. It would destroy John. Scylla. Charybdis. Rock. Hard place. Face it. There are no options. Well, not entirely true. There are two. John dies. Or I do. For real."

"Enough of that, now. You and I both know that's not an option."

"Wrong. It is absolutely an option. Just not a very happy one. I keep telling you. This is the final problem. There is no satisfactory solution – one way or another, someone loses. Trust me. I have considered everything."

"Well. Maybe we just meet him and get a feel for what he wants …"Phillip Styles is heir apparent to the criminal fortunes of Moriarty. My idea is grasping at straws and I know it. But when it's all you have, that's what you do. I can't just give up, can I?

"Lestrade." He says without moving, "You are a complete idiot."

X xxx x x xxx x xx x xx

In the end, after three curt exchanges, there is an agreement.

Sherlock will meet Phillip Styles. It's a deserted warehouse out by the docks.

I am coming too, because the great Sherlock Holmes has insisted. There is a vanity to granting him a final wish. Still, having a DI from Scotland Yard there for the meet up is not popular but Sherlock gets round it by being particularly insulting to me and gives his word I will be unarmed. Styles is confident enough in his position that he agrees. He knows he has Sherlock in check mate. There is going to be precious little that I can do, anyway. There is no way out for us and Styles knows it, too.

Sherlock and I walk in together. The place is full of echoes and shadows and light streaming around setting dust. We are silent and as our eyes adjust, we make our way to the centre of the emptiness edged with stacks of old pallets and boxes that have sagged and lost some of their shape. I check my watch. We are three minutes early. I look around me at the layout. There are massive I-beams the colour of soot and are pillared along until the perspective is reduced to a dot. The air smells of damp cement and rust. I try to get a read off Sherlock but there is nothing. He is looking straight ahead with a stoic, vacant stare.

Then off in the distance, a door opens and squeaks. It is overly loud in the emptiness and when the steel door slams shuts, I feel the noise in my chest. There is a bit of scuffling – two, maybe three people - and then I hear a muted groan. One of them is John. The sound echoes and lifts to the ceiling.

A pigeon takes flight and sails out of sight.

X xxx x x xxx x xx x xx

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you are enjoying the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer and suggestions are often the spark to keep a story going. If you don't want to comment, feel free to tag with a story alert for the next installment. Thank you again for reading. :D (for those who might be … erhm … suffering … there is one more chapter left …)


	20. Chapter 20

Xx x xxx xxx xxx

Chapter Twenty – Sherlock

Lestrade stands to my side and moves his head this way and that to take in all of the view but none of the salient details and when he's completely done with that, he uses his toe to shift a small pebble and then kicks it. The stone bounces and creates an echo that is overly loud. He looks at me with a modicum of guilt and then moves on to the quieter hobby of checking his watch. He pulls back his sleeve relentlessly in unexpectedly consistent one minute intervals.

"Do stop fidgeting."

I could send him away but I don't. Lestrade is here because I insisted. I insisted because at the moment, he is the closest thing I have for a partner. Allies are critical when one is without options. They add incalculably to the dynamic. Despite what I say about him, Lestrade is not entirely stupid. He knows we are dealing with a criminal – who is straining to become the next great mastermind – and who has designs on significant advances in his hierarchy. Lestrade is also not without substantial resources at his disposal. Even he would know enough to discretely position an officer or two in the general vicinity of our location. He would not have disclosed any details. Nor perhaps the existence of one officer to the other. This is a not an official case. As far as anyone is aware, I am quite dead and John is out of town for a few days.

Styles has accepted my terms because he has that most dangerous of criminal attributes – confidence. In his ambition, he thinks he has me cornered and is willing to indulge me. It is a favour – a way of demonstrating to me exactly how much power he truly has and the image he wishes me to have of him – someone with a sense of indulgence. He understands he does not yet have my cooperation and my cooperation is something he wants. Badly. Without me, his Moriarty dreams will never be realized. He is correct on one important point, of course. He does have me irrevocably wedged into the tightest of corners. I have no plan because there are no options. Then again, chance favours the prepared mind and there is no mind more prepared than mine – even when disadvantaged.

Once the side door opens, there are sounds - voices - more than one. The door widens with a metallic groan and one form is shoved through first before the rest - as a shield against attack. It is John. He stumbles and shifts sideways before gaining his balance. It is real; not a ruse. He is cooperating as best he can but with the slow recovery, I think he is not pleased about being pushed. He is being directed first by a hand grabbing his collar and second, and more compellingly, by a gun pointed at the back of his head. His hands are clasped behind his neck prisoner-style but one elbow is slightly lower than the other. The asymmetry is obvious. He is shoved forward again. There is another stumble. The right elbow drops another fraction. When he rights himself, he cannot lift his arm up any further despite a rough reminder. In the light, I can see more dried blood down his front. The right side of his face is smeared with dark streaks and the socket round his right eye is dark with bruising. He walks without natural cadence and has purposely hidden a limp. Self-preservation? Pride? Regardless, he has put up a fight. And lost. Maybe he stopped when he was shown a gun? Knowing him and his state of mind, I think he may well have just kept fighting until he was beaten. Cornered men have nothing to lose. Regardless - he is suffering from more wounds that I can see. At the very least, there is a broken rib or two.

John is wielded into a spot of vague light and is then jerked to a stop. His head lifts up. His face is blank. He is a soldier; stoic and necessarily self-contained. He sees me but there is no change in his expression. I could be a complete stranger and he refuses to hold my gaze. There was a time when he would look at me so we could communicate mutely and we each could exchange something of each other's intentions. That has disappeared. He and I are isolated from each other. It feels like a part of me is missing. Then Styles comes in but no further than John. We are about twenty feet apart.

"So. Here we are." Styles starts. His suit jacket is mid-to-high end – fashionable only to a point. He has not developed sufficient taste yet or has the misfortune to employ a bad tailor. The blazer is open and is snug around his chest. He is carrying a gun but has the courtesy so far not to draw it. It would be uncouth to do so and would spoil his desired atmosphere of conviviality. Besides, overt gun-wielding is what henchmen are for. He has a need to be perceived as above it all but does not quite have Moriarty's panache pull it off. He has a nervous tick and licks his lips before he speaks. A dry mouth indicates nerves. He is still new at the mastermind game. He has yet to deal with great Sherlock Holmes.

He carries on. "A pleasure to finally meet you. Your reputation precedes you. This relationship of ours promises to be a profitable partnership."

"Profitable for whom?"

"Both of us, of course. I am not so greedy as to not share the spoils. You see … I aim to take over from Moriarty and you … well … you need to do a little job for me. And in return, I give you something you want. As fair trade."

"And what is that?"

"A smart man like you? The smartest in London, even?"

"Enlighten me?" I will not make this easy for him.

"Why I do have your Doctor. You go to great lengths to keep him out of harm's way, don't you? Only last week, prevailing wisdom was that you were dead. But the Doctor disappears and suddenly you're alive and well and agreeing we meet. Of course, the Doctor tried to claim he had no knowledge of your survival beyond yesterday. Loyal. Impressive. To his credit, he did not once waver from the lies." Styles laughs and the echo reverberates. "He does not intimidate easily, I will give him that."

John stands – defiant and refusing to look at me. The muscles at his jaw flinch and there is a colour that rises. He is angry but it is noticed only by me. So much is my fault.

"That's you being clever? Having an unarmed man beaten by thugs?"

"Me? Why yes. Yes, it is. I did learn the lessons of my … elders. Everyone has information if you ask them properly. Moriarty was unhinged but he had clever mind for such things. He never left a detail untouched. Such style. Such theatre. And no one better at the cold set up. Showed those of us who cared to observe just how to get to you. He strung you up on marionette strings that you can never cut. And I know how to make you dance."

"Do you, now?" I keep stringing him along, letting him talk.

"Don't be coy." His tone changes; the humour evaporates. My deliberate echoing is starting to wear him down. He is not a patient man and clearly he is not practiced at a prolonged exchange. It is a mistake caused by his inexperience and by not being as smart as he thinks he is. He is annoyed and seems anxious for his payoff. He tries a tactic I'm sure he's seen Moriarty use. "I can get you to do anything I want."

"Oh? And what makes you so certain of that?

"Have you not been paying attention? I have your Doctor. With him, I can get you to do anything at all. I have your ultimate cooperation."

"Don't be so certain." It's the very first statement I make. It ends a string but I have a great deal more information now that when we started.

"Did you hear that, Dr Watson?" He leans over and addresses John in a stage whisper. It is nasty; overly familiar and taunting, as if this is part of a continuing exchange between them. John keeps his eyes focused forward on some middle space and takes it without reaction. He tries to give the impression that the words don't matter and that he does not hear him.

"Your Sherlock doesn't sound like much of a friend. Still. He wouldn't see you suffer, would he?" Styles turns back to me, "You faked your own death to make sure he wouldn't be killed. Moriarty always said – either Sherlock dies or the Doctor does. We all laid our bets. I was certain you were alive, you know. Even after your funeral. Still … as I counted my losses, I realized I had won something. Knowledge. Knowledge about how you chose. What I'm asking you to do is quite simple. It is a small thing – an almost imperceptible task to which you are uniquely suited - but it will cause the global markets a bit of a wobble. Maybe more than a bit. But still. Monetary funds are so unpredictable, don't you think? What with wars and fuel prices and dodgy economies. And this will make them just ever so slightly more so. Extremely profitable for anyone who might be lucky enough to anticipate it. But who really understands standard deviations and selling short anyway?" He has amused himself and pauses to indulge in a small chuckle. "And in return, I will give you back your Doctor Watson."

"Don't do it." John casts his gaze on me and it is the first time he has looked at me since he walked in. His eyes are dead; his expression cold. There is a harshness to him, like he is giving an order to a subordinate officer. I look at him. There has been a gulf of misunderstanding that separates us. Even now, I know he is angry with me beyond all telling. And yet, even with his justifiable lack of forgiveness – he is willing to sacrifice himself. For me. It is perfectly ridiculous. I cannot let him do it and tell him so.

"Don't be silly, John."

He does not flinch. "I mean it."

"Shut up." It is Giambatta. It is his job to keep the prisoner under control and that includes silencing interjections. To correct it, Giambatta pushes John hard and he staggers from the unexpected force. John lets the shove go badly and he falls forward a bit and it is perfectly – artistically - awkward. In the space created, Giambatta comes forward a bit and John uses the opportunity to spin around, pull down on the outstretched gun hand, ram the heel of his other palm into the square of his captor's face. In less than a blink, John is able to get the gun out of Giambatta's hand. He bends forward and John steps in and sends him backwards with a knee up into his jaw. Giambatta sprawls and John separates himself by a couple steps, then points the gun at him double handed. Giambatta moves and John puts half pressure on the trigger. There is an ominous metallic click that instantly freezes Giambatta.

In the commotion, Styles has reached for his gun and Lestrade has done the same. I smile to myself. Of course Lestrade came armed. All at once – there are three guns drawn. Each is pointed in a different direction; John at Giambatta, Styles at John, Lestrade at Styles. A triangulated stand-off. There is no progress – only more weapons revealed.

"Alright," Lestrade says. "How about everybody just calm down?"

"Shut up!" It is Styles.

John does not seem to be the least bit anxious that there are guns all around; even as one of them is still pointed at him. Still, his position has improved now that he is armed and, of the three of them, he is the most accurate shot. He moves to the side so he has a fuller view of his surroundings.

"John, be careful." I hold out his hand as if he might take mine in return and I step forward. I wish he would glance up and see that I am I am compelled to connect with him however I can. I need him to look at me so we can communicate as we have always done. I need to re-establish the link – so that he and I can exchange the slightest nod or blink or twitch – and understand fully the other's intentions. "John!"

I have said too much. Without warning, Styles reacts and shoots into the ceiling as a way of regaining control over this meeting. There is a ricochet and cement chips and dust rain down. A moment later, the bullet hits the ground with a metallic ping. It is a reminder that these are guns filled with bullets and that both the guns and bullets real. It is also an indication that Styles is beginning to unravel. He is fearless to shoot; desperation is setting in.

"Simmer down. This is not your party. It's mine. "

"No." John says. "I don't think so."

"What? You don't get to speak." Styles lets off another bullet into the air. Another burst of detritus rains down on us. Both Lestrade and I duck reflexively again but John's only reaction is to look at him and blink. His hands are steady. He is not the least bit afraid. What has happened to him? Where has the fear gone? I have no other means at my disposal but to call his name and let the sound of my voice be a point of focus.

"John."

"Sherlock. I get it. You can stop now." John starts. It is painful to hear – to watch him speak and not look at me but instead keep his prey within his sights. He has been paying close attention and has been able to fill in most of the blanks in real time. He manages to hit upon the high points as he parrots it back. "Moriarty used me. To get to you. Don't know how, exactly. Or why. Doesn't matter, really. You died so I'd be safe. And now … Styles here is trying it again. Doing it right now. Using me. To get to you. If this ends, there will be another him. And then another after that. Without end. You and I. We are stuck. Going round and round. But I can't. Not any more. I just … can't. So I have a solution. A final solution. And we are both free."

"John ... wait ... " I want to interrupt him before he gets to the conclusion I will not have him making.

"No." Lestrade says it under his breath. He knows what John is thinking as well. "No. No. No." He says it again and again.

Styles is annoyed at John's interference. "Shut up, you."

"What are you going to do to me?" John says with an eerie conversational calm and addresses him directly. He opens up a palm to him designed to mock. It is a dare. "You need me to get to Sherlock. If I go, you think he is going to cooperate? This only works if I am alive."

I bite my tongue to keep from yelling. I know how John thinks. I have lived, laughed, and fought side by side with this man. I have read every word that every psychiatrist has ever written about him. I understand how he thinks, how he reasons, what he values and where he is broken. I can conjure his very thoughts as a strange echo in my head. I understand him utterly. I know what he is thinking now and I am nearly sick with the idea.

"No. John ... Don't." I say.

"It's the only solution. Took me a while to work it out but I do get there in the end, don't I? Without me, Sherlock, you're free." Then with an eerie calm, John shifts and lifts the gun muzzle and rests it against his temple. He looks at Styles. "You will abandon your plan for Sherlock and leave him the hell alone. Both of them are going to walk out of here unharmed or I swear to God I will blow my head off."

"John! NO! No! No." I hold out my hands and make fists so tight I nearly burst my knuckles through the skin. Then I force my fingers to uncurl and relax my hands because I need to stay calm. I ease my voice into normal range and try to get him to pay attention to me. To hear me. I know absolutely and utterly that he is not bluffing. If he were, he would have given me a signal. Some glance, some subtle indication. But there has been none. His stance is firmly planted. He does not shake. He means to do this.

"No. No. No. No. No. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop it." Lestrade adds to the resistance and translates his staccato thoughts to panicked direction. He inhales then presses his lips together and exhales deliberately to relax. He must keep vigilant while powerless to advance and unable to shoot. John's gun is cocked. Everyone just needs to calm down.

"John ... I need you to put the gun down."

"Stop this." It is all Styles can manage. He had not anticipated this kind of development. He has no clue how to regain his position nor how he lost it in the first instance.

"It's the only way, Sherlock. It's the only way you will ever be free. And … I can't … lose you twice. I just … can't."

"John. I beg you! Stop this!" I chew on the words. I want to charge forward but know that any sudden movement will cause chaos and any tremor on his trigger finger will set the gun off.

"I can't. It will be clean. Simple. Painless. There is no other way to break the cycle. They will always use me to get to you. All of them."

"You will not interfere with my plan!"

"No?" John asks.

"No!" All at once, Styles moves his pointed gun from John to me. I lift my hands and show him empty palms. Does he actually threaten to shoot me to get control over John? The relationships are looping upon themselves and I realize that Styles has become unhinged. This is not at all what he had scripted. Now he is madly revising and making it up as he goes. Plans by madmen never go well.

"You are not going to shoot Sherlock Holmes," John says. "He is the point. Without him, your plans fail and you …" He slows down for his final assessment, "become nothing … but a … punk." He accentuates the last word and makes the word sound like a spit in the face.

John's venomous disgust worms its way into Styles and makes a nasty twisted burrow. He doesn't take it well and raises his gun hand to defy this unexpected new authority. It is the first time that Styles has been fully out of control.

"Want to bet?" He says and then lifts the gun and shoots.

Me.

In the chest.

I grab over my heart and double forward, then drop forward to all fours. I watch as blood starts dripping into a puddle. I have a curious sense of dissociation. What has happened is beyond me. I stare as the puddle grows big enough that the uneven floor causes it to drift and leak into a stream. It occurs to me. I am bleeding. Copiously. I cough and it starts to get hard to breathe.

"JOHN!" I hear Lestrade above me. The name. Demanding his attention. Then he hollers. It's an order. "Don't!"

There is another single gunshot. The empty cavern reverberates with the sound of it. It sounds like an explosion has gone off.

Lestrade's voice is hollow and he is almost without air. "Oh. God. No."

With my head still bowed, I shut my eyes and in my mind, I see Moriarty – the substance of his brains blown back over the roof of St Barts. But this time, Moriarty's face transforms into John's. The percussive impact tears into me and splinters my heart into a thousand pieces. I contract and curl – from corporeal pain and the loss of a part of me I never properly understood. This then – was what I did to John. Only mine was a game. And this one is real. This is what it feels like to have your friend kill himself in front of you. I curl and scream and rock and feel my insides spill out onto the cold cement floor. There will never again be any pain equal to this.

I can't hear anything but the sound of my own voice calling out his name.

Then everything goes black.

xx x

The sound drones. I can hear it. Loud. Persistent.

There are sirens; the smell of diesel. Incessant beat of tires over uneven pavement translate their vibrations to me in waves of shock and pain.

I am in an ambulance. We are moving quickly. I can't open my eyes but I can feel the speed underneath me. It is fast. Well beyond the limit. By my calculations, at least twenty kilometers above.

There is an unbelievable ache in my chest and I feel like I can hardly breath but I keep at it until I can open my eyes. Above me, there is a bright light that flickers at the same rate as my eyelids. Then there is a head that bends forward and is backlit like a halo. Slowly, I pick out details. He has a stethoscope hung round his neck; one end in his ear, the other side resting just below his other ear and tucked into the groove behind his jaw. It is lopsided but efficient; he is able to hear ambient sounds and the sounds of a body – my body - breathing, pulse, heart. I stare at the face and for a moment, it is dark. Then my eyes adjust. I recognise the face.

It is … John? I am muffled by an oxygen mask, strapped to a stretcher and bleeding from a gaping wound in the middle of my chest. John?! I struggle hard against it all and fail. My words are unintelligible and I try to claw off the oxygen mask. Too much movement riddles me with pain. I cry out. My vision blurs. I surrender and fall back, then try again. Through slitted eyes, I see him. It is John. Skin around his one eye raw and bruised. Dried blood all down the one side of his face and onto his jumper. But dear God. He is alive.

"Alright, Sherlock." He says, looking down on me with a calm survey and at the same time moving my arm into position. With routine reflex, he ties elastic banding around my bicep and primes a vein, testing it with his thumb. "Settle down. It's just an IV. Won't hurt a bit."

The vehicle hits a bump and the whole insides of the ambulance seem to lift and go sideways. Everything shifts and contorts – driven by gravity and momentum and jostling. It is chaotic. Metal rattles against metal. Tubing swings. Cabinets hold in their contents. In the middle of it, John hovers over me, with a needle in his hand and my bare forearm exposed. The pain expands in my chest and flows out to my limbs but John moves in synchronized unison with the vehicle. He has merged with its rhythm; for him there is no chaos but a familiar sense of calm and order. We hit another bump and I feel everything jolt and shudder but a beat later, the needle jabs into my vein and then John reaches across and locks in an IV. There is a hand that has tape ready for him that he spreads on with precise strokes. No hesitation. No mistakes.

"Just like that," He says to me. Then to someone I can't see, he says. "IV in. Wide open. Push it hard." He is filling me up with saline – keeping me alive and my heart beating while I bleed from the bullet hole in my chest. I can tell by the way he looks at me and the way this feels that it is a catastrophic injury.

I am distracted by my self absorption then focus again on John who twists with a groan and a favour of his one side but carries on to open cabinets two at a time and starts pulling out packages. They are ice packs; he cracks open activation compound and shakes them hard – up and down, one two three times. He does that same movement over and over again - in precise order – and stuffs the cold into my arm pits and my groin, down my sides and around my neck. Every couple of bags, he goes back and checks my pulse and my pressure and calls the numbers out. He is mesmerizing; no wasted energy. He is accurate, deliberate, capable. After the last round, he asks for scissors and has them placed in his hands the right way round for him to use immediately. Then he slices open a bag of saline and soaks me and the ice packs. All at once I feel the cold hit me. It is shocking. Unbearable. I start to shiver. The pain is all consuming. I cannot think.

"What's our ETA?" John asks, looking straight into my eyes as he listens again to the pulse in my neck. I half think he is asking me. I would tell him if I could talk. There was only one hospital we could go to. We cannot be less than eight minutes away. It is too far. He is going to run out of time.

"I am not going to let you die," John says, still looking at me. He must be able to read my expression and tries to convince me I am wrong. I need to tell him before I go. I am sorry. I am sorry about what I did to him at St Barts. The secrets. My return. Everything. He is my best friend. And I hurt him the most of anyone. I need to tell him that he cannot save me – that he did his best. That when I am gone, he must live his life and not … blame … himself. We look at each other – locked in a stare – I need to stay focused on him because I feel a panic rising. There is an aura that I am trying to stave off but I know I am not strong enough. It is not simply a matter of will. I am bleeding without end. The panic rises again and I am running out of time. I will never get these words said … I try to talk but my field of vision contracts and all I can see is grey and the halo around his head grow in intensity.

"Pressure is dropping." I hear him say. John looks up. He is starting to fade and grey is taking over. I blink to stay away. He looks down at me and says. "I need you to hold on just a bit longer, Sherlock. Will you do that for me?" I can't. I know I can't. And it's the only thing I want more than anything to do. And then, as I close my eyes, I hear a slight rise in his voice as he says. "I need another IV and an ETA."

Then everything goes black.

xx x

The light is dim.

I can't open my eyes. Perhaps they are open and I can't focus them. The world has a thick Vaseline blur to it. I can hear machines. Blips. Beeps. Steady beats. Voices sound like they are calling from the bottom of a well. Someone takes my hand. I try to squeeze it and can't. The hand moves up to my pulse, then makes an adjustment on my forearm. There's more movement and I feel a pressure on my chest that disappears and a gown is straightened at my neck. I feel cold, then feel blankets are straightened and tucked in around me. A second layer is put on. I shiver. The voice from the well speaks to me again and I try to answer but there are tubes and I remain mute.

After a while, fingers curl around my hand. The flesh is warm, the sensation comforting. Once again, I try to squeeze and can't. I am driven to hold on. Stay, I want to say to this phantom but I can't speak. I don't want to be left here alone in the cold and the dark and the sounds that I can't interpret. Stay, I think again and concentrate on the one word.

The hand folds around mine and stays.

xx x

The first time I am in my right mind, my brother is standing at my bedside.

"Where am I?"

"In hospital, Sherlock. Intensive care. Some nefarious creature tried to shoot you."

I take in this information as a general truth. I can corroborate some of what he says but not all of it.

"How do you feel? Can I get you anything?"

His concern is genuine. It occurs to me if I say I desire anything at all, he will procure it for me without question. If I asked for the very moon, I am sure he would know the precise numbers to call and efficiently have the arrangements made by tea time and by early evening, the final papers would be in my hands. But I don't want the moon. What do I want? I let the silence draw out between us because it is hard work talking. For once, he is in no rush and for once, I am glad to see my older brother. I take my time. I have to because it is the only speed I can manage. Eventually, I work my way round to it.

"Where is John?"

"Hmm." He says at first. Then edges his way closer to my bedside to address me without his usual imperiousness. "He is not here."

"I can see that. Must you make me work? Even now? Where is he?"

"I'm afraid … " He picks his words with care, "We've had to stage a … small intervention … with the good Doctor."

"What happened?"

"He saved your life, you see." He says it like he is indulging a beloved child with a bed time tale made up just for them. It annoys me endlessly but I am too tired to fight or deliver retaliatory sarcasm. The effort is too much for me. I close my eyes and just let him tell me the story. "Had he not been there, you would have no doubt bled to death. He even used a bit of … inventive … medicine and packed you with ice so your body would not bleed so … energetically. He waited right outside of surgery the whole time you were in there and then stayed with you until you were properly out of danger. He refused to leave your side for even a few minutes of rest. No one has ever had better care than you, Sherlock. Still, it took both the Inspector and I – with some assistance from Mrs Hudson – to band together and … insist … before he would cooperate. He had left his own injuries utterly untreated and – well – he is human and if you ignore things too long, things deteriorate rather quickly. And so we did have to point out the need for attention and rest for himself. Whatever else Dr Watson does in his life, I will be forever grateful to him for this. You owe him your life."

"Yes, I do." I say. And try to count the number of times he has done it. I am enfeebled and lose track after two. "He is alright?"

"He has sustained a variety of cuts and bruising. A bad strain … broken ribs. And -"

"I knew it." I say reflexively, not caring that I cut off my brother. The ribs were broken. Mycroft does not pick up where he left off and we share silence until I work into another question.

"The second shot …"

"Ah, yes. An important question." He warms to the story. I settle into another quiet reverie as he explains. "Your memory is returning. According to the Inspector, the Doctor took umbrage with Mr Styles shooting you. So in a fit of retribution, he felt it appropriate to shoot back."

"Oh dear." I say, anticipating the result.

"Yes. Quite. So sadly, Mr Styles is no more. I must say, the Inspector was grateful for my assistance with some plausible explanations and a bit of … re-staging … regarding the crime scene. I was reasonably truthful about his actions in the case. He is – after all – an upstanding officer of the law despite what anyone says. The whole matter is of course, completely resolved. Scotland Yard can be quite understanding when it is put to them the right way. And dear Mr Giambatta has since been released with the strictest understanding that he retell precisely what happened. I do believe Dr Watson has cured the criminal element of their idea that he is easy pickings – as they say – and it will be sufficient for you both to continue as before remaining largely unmolested. There had been a reward for Mr Style's arrest. Modest, I suppose, in these modern times. But the Doctor refused it nonetheless. Well. I say refused. Redirected might be a better term. Of course, I have seen to it that his … donation … remain anonymous as it was delivered."

"Mmm." I say, trying to stay awake.

"I must say, John Watson is a most remarkably man."

xx x

"Hello, sunshine." he says as he walks in. He stops at the foot of the bed and takes a proper look at me and then carries on to my bedside. "You still look like hell."

"What are you doing here, Lestrade?"

"Just come for a short visit to see how you are holding up." He plunks a sheaf of newspapers on my bed. "Oh. And here. As ordered." He opens up his coat and pulls out a pen and drops it on top of the pile. "And this. On the house. For the word search."

"You've stolen that from work."

"No I haven't. I'm deducting the cost from your next invoice."

"What day is it?" I reach for the papers to check the date.

"Wow." He says. "Really? You don't know?"

By way of explanation, I hold out an arm that is attached to an IV. "If I could get off this slurry of drugs, my habitual mental acuity would be sharp as ever. I am, however, compromised at present. Are you going to tell me or do I have to read it off the masthead of the Daily Mail?"

"Saturday."

"That explains it."

"Explains what?'

I wave a hand in his direction. "Casual day."

"Listen. You're not bloody royalty. I don't have to dress up in a suit and tie to see you. But still … nice to see you are getting back on form. I have missed you." He makes it sound genuine. As if he really did miss me.

"Thank you very much. Do you not have some place to go?"

"I do, in fact."

"Oh?"

Not that I want to know. It's just that he almost never does. I look him over, picking out details and trying to connect them into an answer. I have to do a second round before I give up and put what I have together.

"Casual but not sloppy. Your coat. It's new. Well. New for you. It's raining and that coat is impractical. So you are wearing it precisely because it's new and that means how you look is trumping practicality. Early morning on a Saturday and you've shaved. Cologne is more subtle than the one you use for work. And more expensive, too. That's a good shirt but an older one and you went with a slightly jarring check, not white – the colour suggests that there might be a chance you could get it dirty. You are not a sloppy eater so what then?" I stop because an hour ago they have me another boost of meds and I do not have access to any more information that what I see.

"Partial marks. I'm taking my car round to Molly's so she can pick up a bit of new furniture. Might be a bit of assembly required. I'll give her a hand if she needs it. I've got a few tools in the boot of my car."

"Oh-h."

"It's not like that." He might say it's not, but there is the slightest colour in his cheeks that suggests he wish there were. He argues with me after I silently lift an eyebrow.

"Listen." He says, "She wouldn't take any money for all the damage we did. Said what we broke wasn't worth anything anyway. So this is my way of … helping her out, like."

"She's buying all that on credit? A table. A chair. Two lamps and an end table? That's a hefty sum for her."

"No. Funny thing. She said she entered one of those contests you get in women's magazines … as they do … she didn't expect anything but her name came up in the lucky draw. Got her cheque in the mail yesterday. Covers the whole thing with change to spare."

"What a remarkable coincidence."

"Yeah, I know. Still … sometimes everything works out, doesn't it? Well. I am off. Nothing else you need?"

"How is John?" I stop him before he goes. I have not seen John since the ambulance. My brother has been evasive.

Lestrade has turned to go and my question forces him to return to my bedside. We have been over this before. "He's … fine, Sherlock."

"If he is fine, why haven't I seen him?"

"It's not like that." Lestrade grows serious. "It's not. But you have to understand. John needs … needs some time to get back on his feet. You weren't the only one … hurt. Styles and his crew busted him up badly. Broken ribs. Some very bad bruising. Plus a twisted knee. He's had to suffer days of shock and exhaustion."

"And …?" I prompt him when he stops. That would not be enough to stop him. Not if he genuinely wanted to see me.

"Listen, Sherlock. It's like I told you before. You need to take it easy on him. The last few days have been hard on him. Physically. And emotionally. You need to give him some time to decompress. He's got to get his head around some pretty big ideas and some nasty business. You came back. And almost immediately, he was kidnapped, beaten. You nearly died. Then he wouldn't leave you … we had to … get him away from you … He's going to be fine. I promise you. But just this once, Sherlock. Give him … some time. To recover."

Lestrade has not raised his voice. I almost never listen to anything he says but this … the way he says it and what he says … I will not … cannot rest until I see him.

xx x

When at last we see each other – there is no outward sign that we are anything but the same, but we know we are different. There is a distance – a space between us where trust was the irrevocable bond between us. He is here – again – ever – as my friend – tending to me and using his capacities both as a physician and a soldier to wrangle me into some semblance of order and obedience. But yet … even as we share a cab home … he keeps a part of himself hidden from me. I understand it. So does he. There is a wound between us that has not healed. None of this has ever been anything but my fault entirely.

Once in the apartments of 221B, we slide into old habits but it is imperceptibly not the same. The peace is so fragile that a single poorly chosen word can evacuate all air and good humour from the room and we retreat from each other like electrified polarities. The dead space suffocates us both in the silences between irrelevant banalities that are the only conversations we can manage by ourselves.

It's mid afternoon and I am finally settled on the chesterfield. John sits in a chair with his back to the view outside. The window is open a crack and it is cool so I have been mummified with down. The fresh air is more important than my risk of pneumonia because John cannot breathe when the window is closed. Mrs Hudson has long since adjusted to his need and has placated me by tucking me into a duvet until I am thoroughly cocooned and comfortable. She departs with a final check that I need nothing more. I remain quiet for as long as I can bear it.

"John?"

He and Mrs Hudson have been catering to me since I arrived back at 221B. He thinks this is another request and he's only just now sat down with this morning's news and a cup of tea that has been cold for at least a half hour. He doesn't look up from the paper he has just opened and answers tiredly, using a sigh as initial punctuation. "Yes, Sherlock? What is it?"

"Thank you."

"For?" He thinks it is a set up. To be fair, he is not without cause. After a particularly frustrating morning with me, John has announced that he will no longer indulge in my every whim. If I want it, I can bloody well get it myself. It is not a position Mrs Hudson is willing to take and they have argued over it. He seems to think I am high maintenance at the best of times and a hundred times worse when a patient. He exaggerates, of course. He always does.

"Saving my life."

"Oh. Right." He keeps his eyes on the paper "You're welcome." He doesn't take my thanks with the least bit of sincerity. I try again.

"John. I am sorry."

"For what now?"

"John. I mean it. Look at me." I wait and he does not. I will not speak until he obeys. If there is to be a resolution to this, I am willing to own what is mine to bear. "John? Look at me."

Understanding the stalemate and knowing from our long history of the inevitability of him eventually giving in, he swishes down the paper into a crumpled heap but keeps hold of the edges so he can restore himself once this is over. He looks at me with an unsmiling, impatient expression. I am afforded attention because I have forced the matter.

"John. I … I need to apologize to you." I begin and then begin lose myself in the rush to express everything that has been too long unsaid. I did not realize until I start to speak, that it had been this much of a burden. The realization deepens my voice with nerves and a strange hoarseness. "I am sorry. For killing myself. In front of you. For making you watch. And for every unspeakable burden and humiliation that you have had to endure on my behalf. I never … if I had ever thought there was any way to spare you, I would have. You have to understand. Moriarty was going to kill you if I didn't. You are … my friend, John. No man has ever had better. You are …" I have stop and steady my voice with a pause and a breath. "You are exemplary in absolutely every regard … and in every aspect where … I am not and it is profoundly humbling that you are still here. All I can offer is my apology, John. I can never properly make amends to you. But please know that I am … deeply, deeply, sorry. For everything."

He blinks and studies me hard – with almost a frown – but it is not a frown, it is concentration of a sort I have never seen from him. He clears his throat and shifts the papers a bit then clears his throat a second time. Shifting his shoulders a bit, he then lifts his chin to maintain the idea he completely steady. He is not. He has to press his lips together before the tremor in his chin stops.

When he blinks again, there is a flash of moisture at his eyes and he looks at me one more time. The glint in his eye is sharp and bright and … there is life … the kind I used to see so long ago in him when our connection between us was unbreakable. Very slowly, he lifts up the newspaper he has mashed into his hands. The sun shines in through the window and illuminates his silhouette. Golden light fills the room.

He fiercely tries to keep a small smile from his transforming him. He can hardly manage it and then stretches out his one leg in a relaxed manner that feels like the room has filled with life and energy again. His eyes drop to the page but he is not reading. Softly he says in that understated way he has, "Well, mind you don't do it again …"

D

X xxx x x xxx x xx x xx

As ever, thank you so much for reading. I do hope you enjoyed the story. Feel free to leave comments good or bad … feedback is sunshine for a writer. Thank you again for reading and for all your encouragement.


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